THE  SILVER  BRIDGE 


AND    OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

ELIZABETH 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

press  Cambridge 
1886 


Copyright,  1886, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotypcd  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTEXTS. 


PAGE 

THE  SILVER  BRIDGE 5 

THE  WILLOW 7 

HER  SPHERE 9 

A  WHITE  ROSEBUD 13 

IF  I  WERE  DEAD 16 

SPRING  MIRACLES 19 

HETERODOXY    .        .-      .  •   ^  .•      .•      .  •     .        .        .        .21 

AN  EGYPTIAN  LILY      .        .-.•..        .        .        .  23 

Is  SMITHFIELD 24 

THE  GRASS  is  GREENER  WHERE  SHE  SLEEPS  ...  27 

XIGHT  AND  MORNING 28 

MY  NEIGHBOR'S  GARDEN 30 

LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP 33 

WHEN  LILACS  WAVE           35 

SPRING-TIDE 36 

DlVES  AND  THE  ANGELS 38 

DANDELION  GHOSTS 42 

LINES  TO  A  TUSCAN  AIR •     .       .  45 

AN  OLD  BATTLE-FIELD .        .47 

A  BIRTHDAY .49 

THE  MORNING  OF  THE  YEAR         .        .        .        .        .        .  52 

WINTER-KILLED  .  54 


938831 


IV  CONTENTS. 

DAY  AND  NIGHT 55 

KITTY  GARY 58 

WITH  THEE 60 

A  PINE  TREE 62 

TRUE  MOTHERHOOD 65 

INCONSTANCY 67 

BRIER-BLOOM 70 

AFTER  THE  STORM 72 

VICTOR 74 

A  PICTURE 77 

DROUGHT 79 

IN  PEACE 82 

LOST  DAYS 85 

FALSE  AND  TRUE 87 

THE  SILENT  BATTLE 92 

"UNTIL  DEATH" 94 

LITTLE  FEET 96 

THE  MAGNOLIA  TREE 99 

"HADST  THOU  BEEN  HERE" 102 

HUGHENDEN 104 

TIME'S  LOSSES 105 

FIRE-FLIES 108 

A  WINTER  NIGHT  . 110 

ADVICE 113 

YEARS  AFTER  . 117 

AT  FOURSCORE     .        .        .......        .        .        .      119 

THE  VOICES  OF  SPRING         . 121 

ONE  OF  THREE  123 


THE   SILVEK  BRIDGE. 

THE  sunset  fades  along  the  shore, 
And  faints  behind  yon  rosy  reach  of  sea ; 
Night  falls  again,  but  ah,  no  more, 

No  more,  no  more, 
My  love  returns  to  me. 
The  lonely  moon  builds  soft  and  slow 
Her  silver  bridge  across  the  main, 

But  him  who  sleeps  the  wave  below 
Love  waits  in  vain  — 

Ah  no,  ah  no, 
He  never  comes  again ! 

But  while  some  night  beside  the  sea 

I  watch,  when  sunset's  red  has  ceased  to  burn, 

That  silver  path,  and  sigh,  "  Ah  me, 

Ah  me,  ah  me, 
He  never  will  return  !  " 
If,  on  that  bridge  of  rippling  light, 
His  homeward  feet  should  find  their  way, 


THE  SILVER  BRIDGE. 

I  should  not  wonder  at  the  sight, 
But  only  say 

"  Ah,  love,  my  love, 
I  knew  you  would  not  stay ! " 


THE   WILLOW. 

O  WILLOW,  why  forever  weep 

As  one  who  mourns  an  endless  wrong  ? 
What  hidden  woe  can  lie  so  deep, 

What  utter  grief  can  last  so  long, 
O  sighing  willow  ? 

The  spring  makes  haste,  with  step  elate, 
Your  life  and  beauty  to  renew ; 

She  even  bids  the  roses  wait, 

And  gives  her  first  sweet  care  to  you, 
Beloved  willow ! 

The  welcome  redbreast  folds  his  wing, 
To  pour  for  you  his  freshest  strain  ; 

To  you  the  earliest  bluebirds  sing 
Till  all  your  light  stems  thrill  again, 
Responsive  willow ! 

The  sparrow  trills  his  wedding  song 
And  trusts  his  tender  brood  to  you ; 
(7) 


THE  WILLOW. 

Fair  flowering  vines,  the  summer  long, 
With  clasp  and  kiss  your  beauty  woo, 
O  lovely  willow  ! 

The  sunshine  drapes  your  limbs  with  light, 
The  rain  braids  diamonds  in  your  hair, 

The  breeze  makes  love  to  you  at  night, 
Yet  still  you  droop,  and  still  despair, 
O  loyal  willow ! 

Beneath  your  boughs,  at  fall  of  dew, 

By  lovers'  lips  is  softly  told 
The  tale  that  all  the  ages  through 

Has  kept  the  world  from  growing  old, 
O  listening  willow ! 

But  still,  though  April's  buds  unfold, 
Or  summer  sets  the  earth  aleaf, 

Or  autumn  pranks  your  robes  with  gold, 
You  sway  and  sigh  in  graceful  grief, 
O  brooding  willow ! 

Mourn  on  forever,  unconsoled, 
And  keep  your  secret  sacredly, 

No  heart  in  all  the  world  can  hold 
A  sweeter  grace  than  constancy, 
O  faithful  willow ! 


HER   SPHERE. 

No  outward  sign  her  angelhood  revealed, 

Save  that  her  eyes  were  wondrous  mild  and  fair,  — 

The  aureole  round  her  forehead  was  concealed 
By  the  pale  glory  of  her  shining  hair. 

She  bore  the  yoke  and  wore  the  name  of  wife 
To  one  who  made  her  tenderness  and  grace 

A  mere  convenience  of  his  narrow  life, 
And  put  a  seraph  in  a  servant's  place. 

She   cheered   his   meagre  hearth;    she  blessed   and 
warmed 

His  poverty,  and  met  its  harsh  demands 
With  meek,  unvarying  patience,  and  performed 

Its  menial  tasks  with  stained  and  battered  hands. 

She  nursed  his  children  through  their  helpless  years,  — 
Gave  them  her  strength,  her  youth,  her  beauty's 

prime, 

Bore  for  them  sore  privation,  toil  and  tears, 
Which  made  her  old  and  tired  before  her  time. 
(9) 


10  HER  SPHERE. 

And  when  fierce  fever  smote  him  with  its  blight, 
Her  calm,  consoling  presence  charmed  his  pain ; 

Through  long  and  thankless  watches,  day  and  night, 
Her  fluttering  fingers  cooled  his  face  like  rain. 

With  soft  magnetic  touch  and  murmurs  sweet, 

She  brought  him  sleep,  and  stilled  his  fretful  moan, 

And  taught  his  flying  pulses  to  repeat 

The  mild  and  moderate  measure  of  her  own. 

She  had  an  artist's  quick  perceptive  eyes 

For  all  the  beautiful ;  a  poet's  heart 
For  every  changing  phase  of  earth  and  skies, 

And  all  things  fair  in  nature  and  in  art. 

She  looked  with  all  a  woman's  keen  delight 

On  jewels  rich,  and  dainty  drapery, 
Rare  fabrics  and  soft  hues,  —  the  happy  right 

Of  those  more  favored  but  less  fair  than  she ; 

On  pallid  pearls,  which  glimmer  cool  and  white, 
Dimming  proud  foreheads  with  their  purity ; 

On  silks,  which  gleam  and  ripple  in  the  light, 
And  shift  and  shimmer  like  the  summer  sea ; 

On  gems,  like  drops  by  sudden  sunlight  kissed, 
When  fall  the  last  large  brilliants  of  the  rain  ; 


HER  SPHERE.  11 

On  laces,  delicate  as  frozen  mist 

Embroidering  a  winter  window-pane  : 

Yet,  near  the  throng  of  worldly  butterflies 
She  dwelt,  a  chrysalis,  in  homely  brown ; 

With  costly  splendors  flaunting  in  her  eyes, 
She  went  her  dull  way  in  a  gingham  gown. 

Hedged  in  by  alien  hearts,  unloved,  alone, 

With  slender  shoulders  bowed  beneath  their  load, 

She  trod  the  path  that  Fate  had  made  her  own, 
Nor  met  one  kindred  spirit  on  the  road. 

Slowly  the  years  rolled  onward  ;  and  at  last, 

When  the  bruised  reed  was  broken,  and  her  soul 

Knew  its  sad  term  of  earthly  bondage  past, 
And  felt  its  nearness  to  the  heavenly  goal, 

Then  a  strange  gladness  filled  the  tender  eyes 
Which  gazed  afar  beyond  all  grief  and  sin, 

And  seemed  to  see  the  gates  of  Paradise 
Unclosing  for  her  feet  to  enter  in. 

Vainly  the  master  she  had  served  so  long 

Clasped  her  worn  hands,  and  with  remorseful  tears, 

Cried,  "  Stay,  oh,  stay  !     Forgive  my  bitter  wrong  ; 
Let  me  atone  for  all  these  dreary  years  !  " 


12  HER  SPHERE. 

Alas  for  heedless  hearts  and  blinded  sense  ! 

With  what  faint  welcome  and  what  meagre  fare, 
What  mean  subjections  and  small  recompense, 

We  entertain  our  angels  unaware  ! 


A  WHITE   ROSEBUD. 

O  ROSEBUD,  white  rosebud, 

"Whence  comes  your  summer  smile, 
When  to  and  fro  outside  the  snow 

Is  drifting  all  the  while  ? 
The  cold  midwinter  tempest  roars, 

The  garden  is  bereft ; 
In  all  the  waste  of  out-of-doors 

You  have  no  kindred  left. 

O  rosebud,  dear  rosebud, 

I  wonder  if  you  dream 
How  much  more  fair  and  sweet  you  are 

Than  summer  roses  seem? 
A  rose  that  blooms  in  winter  air 

In  grace  and  beauty  grows 
—  Because  so  precious  and  so  rare  — 

A  thousand  times  a  rose. 

O  rosebud,  fair  rosebud, 

You  grieve  not  that  your  prime 
(13) 


14  A  WHITE  ROSEBUD. 

Of  radiant  bloom  and  rich  perfume 

Has  come  in  winter-time  ; 
And  should  I  deem  it  hard  and  wrong, 

And  drop  ungrateful  tears, 
If  life's  best  joy  should  bloom  among 

The  snows  of  later  years  ? 

O  rosebud,  sweet  rosebud, 

What  happy  secret  lies 
Deep  in  your  heart,  so  shut  apart 

From  rude  and  curious  eyes  ? 
Some  dear  delight  of  soul  or  sense 

Must  make  its  dwelling  there, 
Else  wherefore  does  this  odor  thence 

Eise  like  a  grateful  prayer  ? 

O  rosebud,  rare  rosebud, 

Would  that  you  might  repeat 
The  dreams  which  rest  within  your  breast 

And  make  your  life  so  sweet ! 
'T  were  well  if  we  sad  mortals  knew, 

Our  days  are  so  forlorn ; 
So  many  souls  among  us,  too, 

Alas,  are  winter-born ! 

O  rosebud,  my  rosebud, 
My  heart  is  like  to  you, 


A  WHITE  ROSEBUD.  15 

Since  hidden  deep  therein  I  keep 

A  happy  secret  too. 
Oh,  listen  !  winter-time  will  flee, 

And  spring  will  bless  the  air, 
And  birds  will  sing,  and  there  will  be 

White  rosebuds  everywhere ! 


IF  I  WERE   DEAD. 

IF  I  were  dead, 

Or  fled 

To  some  far  shore  unknown, 
And  you  were  left 

Bereft, 
To  wander  here  alone,  — 

How  long  would  you 

Be  true 
To  memory  of  mine  ? 

How  soon  Love's  deht 

Forget, 
And  seek  another  shrine  ? 

What  fairer  eyes 

Would  rise 

Like  day-stars  on  your  soul  ? 
And  whose  sweet  speech 

Would  teach 
Delight  to  follow  dole  ? 
(16) 


IF  I  WERE  DEAD.  17 

What  charm  make  brief 

Your  grief  ? 
What  tender  ministry 
Heal  with  soft  art 
The  heart 
That  ached  for  loss  of  me  ? 

It  would  be  so, 

I  know ;  — 

Men's  love  is  like  to  this  : 
They  hold  the  near 

Most  dear, 
The  absent  scarcely  miss. 

Some  other  face 

Will  grace 

Your  home  when  I  have  flown, 
And  claim  as  bliss 

The  kiss 
I  prized  as  mine  alone. 

Oh,  love  and  pain ! 

In  vain 

We  long  for  utter  truth. 
It  is  at  best 

A  jest, 
A  day-dream  of  our  youth ; 


18  IF  I   WERE  DEAD. 

And  many  wives 

Whose  lives 

Have  lacked  no  duteous  grace, 
Are,  ere  they  die, 
Thrown  by 
For  a  more  youthful  face. 

Ah,  well  she  sleeps 
Who  keeps 

Her  love  till  life's  last  eve ; 
If  then  he  range 

Or  change, 
Ghosts  do  not  blush,  nor  grieve. 

But  stay  awhile 

And  smile, 
And  let  me  fancy  yet 

That  Time's  cold  breath 

Nor  Death 
Could  make  you  quite  forget ! 


SPRING  MIRACLES. 

WHEN  the  icy  heart  of  nature  yearns 

Faintly  in  its  wintry  stupor  deep, 
And  the  prescient  earth,  half-conscious,  turns 

Sunward,  smiling  in  her  frozen  sleep,  — 

How  do  dull-brown  tubers,  which  have  lain 
In  their  darksome  prison  heaped  away, 

Know  that  spring  entreats  the  world  again, 
And  begin  their  struggle  towards  the  day  ? 

No  spring  light  has  touched  them  where  they  lay, 
No  spring  warmth  has  reached  them  in  their  tomb, 

Yet  they  sprout  and  yearn  and  reach  alway 
Toward  the  distant  goal  of  life  and  bloom. 

Planted  in  the  self-same  garden  bed, 

Nourished  by  the  self-same  rain  and  light, 

Whence  do  roses  draw  their  glowing  red  ? 
Whence  the  lily-cups  their  shining  white  ? 
(19) 


20  SPRING  MIRACLES. 

Whence  does  the  refulgent  marigold 
Gain  the  gilding  for  her  yellow  globes  ? 

Where  do  pansies  find,  amid  the  mould, 
Purple  hues  to  prank  their  velvet  robes  ? 

How  do  sweet-peas  plume  their  wings  with  pink, 
Lavender,  and  crimson  rich  and  fair  ? 

Nature  gives  them  one  and  all  to  drink 
Limpid  crystal,  colorless  as  air. 

Little  gardener,  with  your  golden  locks 

Bright  with  sunshine  or  uncurled  with  dew, 

Musing  there  among  your  pinks  and  phlox, 
Finding  always  something  strange  or  new,  — 

Trust  me,  child,  the  wisest,  strongest  brain, 
Cobwebbed  with  much  learning  though  it  be, 

Querying  thus,  must  query  all  in  vain, 
Pausing  foiled  at  last,  like  you  or  me. 

Sages  ponder  on  the  mysteries 

Hidden  close  in  petal,  root,  and  stem ; 

Nature  yields  more  questions  than  replies,  — 
Babes  may  ask,  but  who  can  answer  them  ? 


HETERODOXY. 

PRAY  thee,  put  the  sermon  by,  —  vex  my  soul  no 

more  with  creeds, 
And  the  vague  and  slow  rewards  dealt  to  good  and 

evil  deeds ; 
I   am   tired   of  differing   sects,   with    their  various 

bigotry,  — 
Ah,  for  me  death  holds  no  terror  but  the  fear  of 

losing  thee ! 

In  a  heaven  apart  from  thee,  could  my  exiled  soul 

rejoice  ? 
Could  I   join  the  angels'  song,  missing  thence  thy 

tender  voice  ? 
What  to  me  were  gates  of  pearl,  if  they  parted  thee 

and  me  ? 
What  the  streets  so  fair  and  golden,  if  I  wandered 

lacking  thee  ? 

What  to  me  would  be  the  "joys  of  that  bright  and 

wondrous  land, 
If   among  them  all  I  sought  vainly  for  thy  loving 

hand? 

(21) 


22  HETERODOXY. 

What  to  me  were  pastures  green,  where   thy  feet 

could  never  be  ? 
Or  the  paths  beside  still  waters,  if  thou  wnlkedst  not 

with  me  ? 

Ah,  wherever  after  death  my  still  faithful  soul  may 

dwell,  — 
Saints  may  call  it  bliss  or  woe,  they  may  name  it 

heaven  or  hell,  — 
By  thee  only,  O  beloved,  will   my  joy  or  pain  be 

wrought, 
I  shall  find  my  heaven  beside  thee,  or  my  hell  where 

thou  art  not ! 


AN  EGYPTIAN   LILY. 

Ax  arrowy  point  divides  the  oozy  mould, 
A  slender  shaft,  an  emerald  spear  in  rest ; 
And  soon  another  crowds  the  earliest, 

Crumpled  and  crimped  with  creases  manifold, 

So  closely  were  its  swaddling-garments  rolled,  — 
Even  as  a  baby's  cheek,  in  slumber  pressed 
Against  the  pillow  of  its  downy  nest, 

Is  stamped  and  dimpled  by  a  careless  fold. 
A  faint  green  bud  appears,  and,  hour  by  hour, 
Greatens  and  whitens ;  yet  a  little  while, 

And,  marvelling,  the  gazer's  eyes  behold 
The  fragrant  glory  of  the  perfect  flower, 
Full  of  the  magic  of  the  mystic  Nile,  — 

A  wondrous  cream-white  trumpet,  spiked  with  gold ! 


IN   SMITHFIELD. 

HERE  on  the  very  spot  where  now  I  stand 
Tracing  on  this  gray  stone  the  carved  letters, 

In  other  days  a  flame-crowned  martyr  band 
Stood  slowly  burning  in  their  red-hot  fetters, 

Lapped  by  red  tongues  of  flame,  and  choked  with 
smoke, 

Under  this  very  sky  that  frowns  and  lowers  ; 
Yet  from  the  clouds  no  voice  of  thunder  spoke, 

Nor  tender  mercy  fell  in  quenching  showers. 

And  so  they  died ;  strong  in  the  high  belief 
That  faithful  ages  would  repeat  their  story, 

That  God  would  recompense  their  anguish  brief, 
And  crown  their  pain  with  everlasting  glory. 

The  times  have  changed :  not  now  does  bigotry 
Heap  funeral  pyres  in  London's  market-places, 

Nor  drag  condemned  enthusiasts  out  to  die, 
With  dawning  haloes  round  their  pallid  faces ; 
(24) 


IN  SMITHFIELD.  25 

No  holy  bishop  stands,  with  fierce  intent, 

The  smouldering  fagots  with  his  crosier  turning, 

And  snuffs  up,  like  a  rose's  breath,  the  scent 
Of  wicked  human  thews  and  sinews  burning. 

We  say  these  cruel  evils  brought  forth  good,  — 
This  age  is  more  humane ;  nor  is  our  boasting 

A  thing  of  mere  conceit  and  hardihood,  — 

We  starve  our  martyrs  now,  instead  of  roasting. 

All  up  and  down  this  grim  and  haunted  square 
They  swarm,  the  martyrs  of  this  age  enlightened : 

Children  with  feet  and  shoulders  thin  and  bare  ; 
Men  with  ignoble  heads  untimely  whitened, 

And  faces  blear  and  old  before  their  time ; 

Lost  girls,  who  earn  their   bread  by  smiles   and 

laughter 
Shameless  and  false  as  those  who  buy  their  crime,  — 

Hating  the  present,  dreading  the  hereafter ; 

Youths  old  in  guilt  before  their  middle  age, 

Schooled   from   their   birth   in  words   and   deeds 
unholy ; 

And  toil-bent  women-slaves,  whose  scanty  wage 
Only  enables  them  to  starve  more  slowly ; 


26  IN   SMITHFIELD. 

Mothers,  who  once,  perhaps,  knew  love  and  mirth, 
"When  life  was  easier  and  their  hearts  were  younger, 

Now  maddened  by  that  dreariest  sound  on  earth,  — 
The  cry  of  babes  who  wail  with  cold  and  hunger. 

No  aureole  gathers  round  these  grimy  brows, 
No  lofty  faith  upbears  their  load  of  trial, 

No  angel  form  above  their  torment  bows ; 

But  want,  and  sin,  and  shame,  and  grim  denial 

Attend  their  rising  up  and  lying  down, 

And  make  them  cringe,  and  steal,  and  lie,  and 

grovel ; 
They  win  no  martyr's  fame,  nor  palm,  nor  crown, 

But  die  of  vice  and  misery,  in  a  hovel. 

Ragged  and  hungry,  comfortless  and  cold, 
Shivering  and  purple  in  the  wintry  breezes, 

Which  would  they  choose,  knew  they  the  story  old, 
The  age  which  burned,  or  this  which  starves  and 
freezes  ? 

London,  England. 


THE   GRASS  IS  GREENER  WHERE   SHE 
SLEEPS. 

THE  grass  is  greener  where  she  sleeps, 

The  birds  sing  softlier  there, 
And  Nature  fondest  vigil  keeps 

Above  a  face  so  fair,  — 
For  she  was  innocent  and  sweet 

As  mortal  thing  can  be,  — 
The  only  heart  that  ever  beat, 

That  beat  alone  for  me. 

To  me  her  dearest  thoughts  were  told, 

Her  sweetest  carols  sung  ; 
To  her  my  love  was  never  old, 

My  face  was  always  young. 
Ah,  life  seems  drear  and  little  worth, 

Since  she  has  ceased  to  be,  — 
The  only  heart  in  all  the  earth 

That  never  loved  but  me  ! 
(27) 


NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 

I  PAUSE  beside  the  darkening  pane, 

With  homesick  heart  and  weary  hand, 
To  watch  the  fair  day  die  again, 
And  evening  with  its  shadowy  train 
Creep  slow  along  the  lonesome  land. 

The  west  has  lost  its  line  of  gold  ; 

The  clouds  hang  threatening,  near  and  far, 
Heavy  and  hopeless,  fold  on  fold  ; 
And  night  comes  moaning,  unconsoled 

By  glimmer  of  a  single  star. 

Ah,  why  does  hope  depart  with  light  ? 

And  why  do  griefs  and  fears  alway, 
And  bitter  thoughts  of  loss  and  blight, 
Come  crowding  back  again  with  night, 

Like  evil  things  which  fear  the  day  ? 

Yet  none  but  feeble  souls  complain  ; 
The  world  is  only  dark,  not  lost ; 
The  day  will  shine  on  wave  and  plain, 
(28) 


NIGHT  AND  MORXIXG. 

The  grass  and  flowers  will  spring  again, 
Despite  the  night,  despite  the  frost. 

And  when  the  east,  like  some  far  shore 
Of  promise,  broadens  rosy-bright, 

Visions  of  darkness  vex  no  more, 

For  all  their  legions  flee  before 
The  level  lances  of  the  light. 

The  grief  that  seemed  too  hard  to  bear, 
The  thought  which  stung  to  sharpest  pain, 

Fade  in  the  rich  and  golden  air  ; 

The  heart  grows  calm,  the  world  grows  fair, 
And  life  is  sweet  and  dear  again. 


MY   NEIGHBOR'S   GARDEN. 

UP  to  the  border  of  my  small  domain 

My  neighbor's  garden  stretches  wide  and  sweet ; 

His  roses  toss  against  my  window-pane ; 

His  jasmine  wreathes  my  porch  and  doorway  seat. 

My  threshold  every  May  is  carpeted 

With  pale  pink  petals  from  his  peach-tree  blown ; 
His  tallest  lilac  lifts  its  plumy  head 

Up  to  the  casement  where  I  sit  alone. 

Waking  I  hear,  as  dawns  the  morning  light,  — 
My  neighbor  busy  in  his  bordered  walks, 

Noting  the  added  beauties  born  of  night, 
Pulling  the  weeds  among  his  flower-stalks. 

From  early  March,  when  the  brave  crocus  comes, 
Edging  the  beds  with  lines  of  blue  and  gold, 

Till  the  consoling,  kind  chrysanthemums 
Contend  against  the  winter's  cruel  cold,  — 

My  neighbor  toils  with  wise  and  patient  hand, 
Scarce  pausing  in  his  work  for  sun  or  shower, 

(30) 


MY  NEIGHBOR'S  GARDEN.  31 

Evolving  gradually  from  mould  and  sand 

The  germ,  the  leaf,  the  perfect  bud  and  flower. 

A  rare  magician  he,  whose  touch  transmutes 

—  Helped  by  the  sprites  which  rule  the  airs  and 
dews  — 

Dry  dormant  seeds  and  dark  unlovely  roots 

To  graceful  shapes  and  richest  scents  and  hues. 

His  garden  teems  with  glad  and  brilliant  lives  ; 

There  wheel  and  dive  the  gauzy  dragon-flies, 
Bees  gather  tribute  for  their  distant  hives, 

And  gray  moths  flutter  as  the  daylight  dies. 

Sparrows  and  wrens  sing  songs  which  need  no  words ; 

And  over  flower-cups  scarce  more  bright  than  they, 
Green-winged  and  scarlet-throated  humming-birds 

Hang,  tranced  with  sweet,  then  whir  and  dart 
away. 

From  branch  to  branch,  beneath  my  watching  eyes, 
His  net  a  black-and-golden  spider  weaves, 

And  scores  of  many-colored  butterflies 

Waltz  in  and  out  among  the  dancing  leaves. 

My  neighbor  in  their  midst  —  thrice-favored  one  ! 
Delves,  plants,  trains,  weeds,  and  waters  patiently, 


32  MY  NEIGHBOR'S  GARDEN. 

Studies  the  alchemy  of  rain  and  sun, 
And  works  his  floral  miracles  for  me. 

For  me  !  not  one  enjoys  this  paradise 

As  I,  within  my  overlooking  room  ; 
It  is  not  seen,  even  by  the  owner's  eyes, 

At  once  —  the  whole  wide  stretch  of  growth  and 
bloom. 

With  sight  and  mind  absorbed,  he  little  thinks 
How  all  his  garden's  sweetness  drifts  to  me ; 

How  his  rich  lilies  and  his  spicy  pinks 
Send  incense  up  to  me  continually. 

Yet  still  he  labors  faithfully  and  long 
My  loneliness  to  brighten  and  beguile, 

Asking  for  all  this  fragrance,  bloom,  and  song 
Not  even  the  small  repayment  of  a  smile. 

Unconscious  friend,  who  thus  enrichest  me, 

Long  may  thy  darlings  thrive,  untouched  by  blight, 

Unplagued  by  worm  or  frost ;  and  may  there  be 
No  serpent  in  thine  Eden  of  delight. 

And  ye  whose  spirits  faint  with  weariness, 
Count  not  your  work  unvalued  and  unknown ; 

Cheered  by  your  toil,  some  silent  soul  may  bless 
The  hand  that  strives  not  for  itself  alone. 


LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP. 

I  DREAMED  I  had  for  months  been  dead  ; 
Spring  rain,  and  summer  light  and  bloom 

Had  swept  across  my  lonesome  bed, 
With  clover  scent  and  wild  bees'  boom 
Lightening  the  place  of  half  its  gloom. 

Serene  and  calm,  my  quiet  ghost 
Came  softly  back  to  see  the  place 

Where  I  had  joyed  and  suffered  most ; 
To  look  upon  his  grieving  face 
Whose  memory  death  could  not  erase. 

But  he,  my  love,  whom  even  in  heaven 
I  yearned  to  comfort  and  sustain, 

Knowing  how  sore  his  heart  was  riven  — 
My  love,  with  life  so  changed  to  pain 
That  he  could  never  love  again  — 

Forgetful  of  the  golden  band 

On  my  dead  finger  slumbering, 
Now  bent  above  another  hand, 
(33) 


34  LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP. 

And  clasped  and  kissed  the  dainty  thing, 
And  whispered  of  another  ring. 

Alas,  poor  ghost !     I  felt  a  thrill, 

A  sudden  stab  of  mortal  pain, 
And  sighed.     He  shivered  :   "  Ah,  how  chill 

The  air  has  grown,  and  full  of  rain  ; 

My  darling,  kiss  me  warm  again !  " 

Why  should  I  linger  ?     As  I  passed 

Her  lips  touched  shyly,  murmuring  low, 

Just  where  my  own  had  kissed  their  last, 
Only  so  little  while  ago ; 
"Ah,  well,"  I  said,  "  'tis  better  so." 

But  one  who  in  my  life  passed  by 

With  friendship's  coolest  touch  and  tone, 

I  found  beneath  the  darkening  sky, 
Beside  my  grave  all  bramble-grown, 
With  sorrow  in  his  eyes  —  alone. 

A  tear,  down-glittering  as  he  stood, 
Hung,  star-like,  in  the  grass  below : 

I  blessed  him  in  my  gratitude  — 

He  smiled :  "  Dear  heart,  if  she  could  know 
How  sweet  these  brier-blossoms  grow  !  " 


WHEN   LILACS  WAVE. 

WHEN  lilacs  wave  their  plumes  in  purple  pride, 

And  dandelions  star  the  country  side, 

And  the  trim  catbird,  in  her  garrulous  quest, 
Seeks  straws  and  feathers  for  her  careless  nest, 

Which  seemingly  she  does  not  try  to  hide  — 

The  redbreast's  songs  are  jubilant  and  sweet, 
The  tender  grass  is  velvet  to  the  feet, 

And  nightmare  Care  sits  lightlier  on  the  breast, 
When  lilacs  wave. 

The  almond  swings  its  wands  of  rosy-white, 
The  scarlet  tulips  trim  their  torches  bright, 
The  crocuses,  in  gold  and  purple  drest, 
Wake,  fresh  and  perfect,  from  their  winter  rest  — 
And  love  is  heaven,  and  life  is  all  delight, 
When  lilacs  wave. 


(35) 


SPRING-TIDE. 

THE  cherry-tree  is  clad  in  white 

As  though  with  clinging  snow, 
The  peach  is  pink  with  blossoming, 

The  red-fringed  maples  glow, 
And  brightly  on  the  sunnier  slopes 

The  grass  begins  to  grow. 

The  climbing  rose-briers  teem  with  buds, 

And  flaunt  their  promise  high  ; 
The  strawberry-blossom  lifts  again 

Its  white-and-golden  eye, 
And  herb  and  weed,  through  damp  dead  leaves, 

Crowd  up  to  see  the  sky. 

The  grape  rejects  the  last  year's  bond 
Which  cramped  its  wandering  will, 

The  clambering  vine  forgets  the  hand 
That  nailed  it  to  the  sill, 

And  tendril,  stem,  and  velvet  leaf 
Shoot  upward,  upward  still. 
(36) 


SPRIXG-TIDE.  37 

And  all  the  dead  year's  woes  and  wrongs, 

The  heat  and  dust  and  din 
Of  suinmer-time  —  the  bitter  winds 

"Which  winter  ushered  in, 
Are  now,  amid  this  fresh  new  life, 

As  though  they  had  not  been. 

How  sweet  to  cast  aside  the  load 

"Which  time  and  sorrow  bring, 
The  galling  bonds,  the  outgrown  ties, 

The  griefs  which  gnaw  and  cling, 
And  build  a  fresh  and  perfect  life 

Anew  with  every  spring  — 

"With  last  year's  dead  leaves  cast  aside, 

And  last  year's  chains  unbound, 
To  leave  the  husks  of  age  and  care 

Behind  us  in  the  ground, 
And  rise  into  the  gracious  light, 

"With  youth  and  gladness  crowned ! 


DIVES   AND  THE   ANGEL. 

AN  angel  came  to  Dives  as  he  slept, 

A  Presence  with  severe  and  searching  glance, 

Who  stooped  and  questioned  him.    "  How  have  you 

kept 
The  promise  of  your  rich  inheritance  ? 

"  How  is  it  that  you  still  join  field  to  field, 

And  house  to  house,  and  make  your  treasure  more, 

While  want  and  misery  remain  unhealed, 

And  wretched  children  beg  from  door  to  door  ? 

*"  While  pallid  women,  finer-souled  than  you, 
Drudge  weary  year  on  year  for  scantiest  wage, 

No  hope  before  them,  all  the  long  days  through, 
But  toil  in  youth  and  beggary  in  age  ? 

"  Has  Heaven,  which  dowered  you  as  its  almoner, 
Found  you  a  faithful  servant,  just  and  true  ? 

How  many  hearts,  with  gratitude  astir, 
Are  happier  to-day  because  of  you  ?  " 
(38) 


DIVES  AXD   THE  ANGEL.  39 

"  Hear,  Lord !  "  replied  the  rich  man,  "  I  implore ! 

I  know  my  wealth  is  only  shining  dust ; 
I  turn  no  homeless  beggar  from  my  door 

Without  a  cup  of  water  and  a  crust. 

"  To  bring  the  heathen  to  thy  feet  more  near, 
My  name  is  foremost,  and  my  aid  is  sure, 

And  my  discarded  garments,  year  by  year, 
Console  the  shivering  shoulders  of  thy  poor." 

"  Unfaithful  steward  !  false  and  self-confessed, 
Who  hope  to  win  the  favor  of  the  skies 

By  grasping  and  enjoying  all  the  best, 
And  giving  only  what  you  do  not  prize  ! 

"You  make  a  virtue  of  your  selfishness 

And  hold  the  joy  of  giving  poor  and  cheap, 

By  offering  to  another's  sore  distress 

That  which  you  do  not  want  and  would  not  keep ! 

"  The  work-girl  who  divides  her  scanty  store 

With  one  more  poor,  is  princelier  far  than  you  — 

A  penny  from  her  slender  purse  is  more 

Than  thousands  from  your  bounteous  revenue. 

•'  Your  fortunate  fingers  hold  the  golden  keys 
Which  make  it  a  delight  and  joy  to  live ; 


40  DIVES  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

The  jewelled  gates  of  luxury  and  ease 

Swing  wide,  and  yield  you  all  that  life  can  give. 

"  You  dwell  within  a  palace  grand  and  proud, 
Fair  as  though  conjured  by  a  wizard's  spell, 

While  others  wander  shelterless,  or  crowd 

In  wretched   huts   where   beasts   would   scorn   to 
dwell. 

"  You  clothe  yourself  in  raiment  rich  and  fine, 
And  toss  your  brother  garments  coarse  and  old  ; 

You  give  the  water,  and  withhold  the  wine, 
Divide  the  copper,  and  retain  the  gold. 

"Is  it  because  you  earn  reward  and  praise 
By  purer  heart  and  life,  and  nobler  deeds, 

That  you  walk  daintily  life's  lilied  ways, 

While  he  goes  stumbling  in  its  thorns  and  weeds  ? 

"  What  is  it  that  you  fling  the  poor  a  crust 

While  you  fare  delicately  every  day  ? 
What  is  it  that  you  give  because  you  must 

And  still  live  on  in  wealth  because  you  may  ? 

"  Then,  when  at  last  Death's  chill  compelling  clutch 
Has  pinched  your  grasping  fingers  numb  and  cold, 

You  try  to  gain  the  praise  you  crave  so  much 
By  scattering  what  you  cannot  longer  hold. 


DIVES  AND  THE  ANGEL.  41 

"  The  selfish  worm  within  the  apple's  core, 
Which  revels  all  his  life  in  fruit  or  flower, 

Who  thanks  him,  that  when  he  can  eat  no  more 
He  leaves  behind  what  he  could  not  devour  ? 

"  Is  it  your  virtue,  then,  that  you  forsake 

The  precious  gold  of  which  you  are  so  fond  ? 

You  leave  it  only  that  you  cannot  take 
A  credit-letter  on  the  world  beyond. 

"  Beware  !  for  noting  all  your  narrow  greeds, 
An  eye  which  cannot  err  and  does  not  sleep 

"Will  scan,  as  measure  of  your  generous  deeds, 
Not  only  what  you  give  —  but  what  you  keep ! " 


DANDELION  GHOSTS. 

THE  dooryard  flower  that  children  love 
All  other  common  flowers  above, 
The  dandelion-bloom,  alas, 
No  longer  stars  the  roadside  grass, 
But  folds  away  its  yellow  robes ; 
And  now  from  countless  gauzy  globes, 
Gray  gossamer  ghosts  float  everywhere, 
Like  bubbles  blown  along  the  air. 

Dear  homelike  flower,  which  cheers  alway 

The  dusty  path  of  every  day, 

Even  death  is  kind  to  thee,  and  brings 

Twin-gifts  of  liberty  and  wings  ; 

O,  peer  of  butterflies  and  bees, 

Fair  playmate  of  the  wandering  breeze, 

Methinks  I  would  rejoice  to  be 

A  free  and  fetterless  ghost  like  thee ! 

No  ghastly  phantom,  pale  and  stark, 
Stalking,  reproachful,  through  the  dark, 

(42) 


DANDELION  GHOSTS.  43 

To  fright  the  souls  which  held  me  dear, 

And  mourned  my  loss  with  tear  on  tear ;  — 

And  yet,  at  last  —  so  hard  to  bear 

Are  loneliness  and  dull  despair  — 

Their  pain  of  sore  bereavement  healed 

With  love  more  warm  than  ghosts  can  yield ;  — 

No  spectre,  bringing  fear  and  dread, 
To  blanch  from  timid  lips  the  red, 
But  such  a  gentle  ghost  as  might 
Unchallenged  come  in  fair  daylight, 
Unsoiled  by  dust,  unwet  by  dew, 
In  fearless  freedom  strange  and  new, 
To  sail  serenely  through  the  air 
Uncaught,  unhindered,  everywhere. 

No  fate  were  happier  than  to  be 

An  evanescent  ghost  like  thee, 

A  mild  returner  from  the  dead, 

Which  few  would  note,  and  none  would  dread  ; 

To  visit,  not  in  grief  or  gloom, 

The  scenes  which  saw  my  early  bloom, 

And  mark  how  perfect  and  how  fair 

The  world  could  be,  —  and  I  not  there ! 

Ah,  happy  flower,  that  smilest  through 
Thy  three  bright  days  of  sun  and  dew, 


44  DANDELION  GHOSTS. 

And  then,  when  time  decrees  thy  doom, 
Risest  anew  in  rarer  bloom, 
A  perfect  sphere  of  daintiest  white, 
As  soft  as  air,  as  still  as  light, 
Leaving  these  earthly  damps  of  ours 
To  seek,  perhaps,  the  heaven  of  flowers ! 


LINES  TO  A  TUSCAN  AIR. 

MY  heart  has  learned  a  simple  song, 

More  sweet  than  summer  birds'  — 
Its  burden  lasts  the  whole  day  long, 

Though  few  and  brief  the  words  ; 
And  thus  in  sun  and  shadow, 

I  sing  it  o'er  and  o'er  — 
"  My  love !  my  love ! 

My  love  forevermore !  " 

The  golden  light  may  leave  the  sky, 

The  gloomy  clouds  may  frown  — 
The  flowers  may  close,  the  winds  may  cry, 

The  mournful  rain  come  down ; 
Yet  though  the  tempests  gather, 

I  carol  as  before  — 
"  My  love  !  my  love  ! 

My  love  forevermore  ! " 

And  years  may  pass  and  youth  may  go, 

And  morning  dreams  depart, 
And  time  may  bring  me  care  and  woe, 

It  cannot  break  my  heart  — 
(45) 


46  LINES  TO  A  TUSCAN  AIR. 

In  life  or  death  exulting, 
My  joy  I  still  outpour  — 

"  My  love  !  my  love  ! 
My  love  f orevermore  ! " 


AN   OLD  BATTLE-FIELD. 

THIS  fair  broad  stretch  of  level  grass, 
Spangled  with  bee  and  bloom  and  bud, 

A  few  short  years  ago,  alas, 

Was  one  wide  waste  of  death  and  blood. 

Here  boomed  the  cannon's  thunderous  roar, 

And  strong  arms  strove,  and  brave  hearts  bled ; 

The  sickened  earth  was  dark  with  gore, 
And  heaped  and  cumbered  with  the  dead. 

But  now,  how  different !     Tender  notes 

Of  love  and  gladness  fill  the  air, 
The  mocking-birds'  melodious  throats 

Bubble  with  music  everywhere  ; 

The  wild  plants  blossom  as  of  old, 

Before  the  world  had  ever  sinned  ; 
The  pink  azalea's  buds  unfold 

And  sweeten  every  wandering  wind  ; 

The  strawberry-bloom's  clear  whiteness  shows 
No  red  remembrance  of  a  stain, 
(47) 


48  AN  OLD  BATTLE-FIELD. 

Although  the  sod  whereon  it  grows 
Was  deluged  once  with  crimson  rain. 

And  daily  on  the  slope's  green  breast 

The  tribes  of  blossoming  things  increase  — 

But  dearer  far  than  all  the  rest 

The  fair  white  flower  whose  name  is  Peace 

Whose  gracious  leaves  to  heal  the  ills 

Which  sapped  the  nation's  life  are  sent  — 

Whose  fragrance  blesses  all  the  hills  — 
Whose  fruits  are  plenty  and  content. 

As  some  wise  mother's  tender  thought 
Forgives  her  children's  angry  strife, 

Conceals  the  wrong  their  wrath  has  wrought, 
And  builds  thereon  a  gentler  life ; 

So  Nature's  great  maternal  soul 
Forgives  the  petty  wars  of  men,  — 

Forgets  the  battle's  awful  roll, 
And  bids  the  bluebird  sing  again ; 

And  from  the  trampled  sod,  restored 
By  summer  rain  and  winter  snow, 

Blots  out  the  track  of  fire  and  sword, 
And  makes  the  purple  violets  grow. 

Richmond,  'Virginia. 


A  BIRTHDAY. 

Now  when  the  landscape  lies  all  hushed  and  stilly 
Beneath  the  cold  gray  sky  and  shrouding  snow, 
Dawns  the  dim  birthday,  shadowy  and  chilly, 
Of  my  sweet  winter-child  —  my  rare  white  lily, 
Loved  all  too  well,  and  lost  so  long  ago. 

Sometimes  I  marvel,  dazed  by  doubt  and  distance, 
Whether  she  was  a  mortal  baby  fair 

Or  some  more  glorified  and  pure  existence 

Lent  for  a  little  —  a  divine  assistance 
To  help  me  over  uttermost  despair. 

I  bring  to  other  birthdays  kiss  and  token, 

And  loving  wishes  crowding  fond  and  fast  — 
To  this  I  only  bring  a  woe  unspoken, 
Bitter  rebellious  tears,  a  heart  half  broken, 
Bruising  itself  against  the  cruel  past. 

Year  after  year  I  think  of  her  as  older, 

And  muse  upon  her  growth,  and  softly  speak ; 
Now  without  stooping  I  could  clasp  and  hold  her,  - 

(49) 


50  A  BIRTHDAY. 

And  now  her  golden  head  would  reach  my  shoul 
der, — 

And  now  her  sweet  white   brow  would  touch  my 
cheek. 

Would  earthly  years  have  had  the  power  to  render 

That  holy  face  less  innocent  and  fair  ? 
And  those  clear  eyes,  so  luminous  and  tender, 
Would   they   have   kept   undimmed   their  depths  of 

splendor, 
Amid  these  heavy  clouds  of  grief  and  care  ? 

I  wonder,  when  I  see  my  locks  grown  duller 

By   blighting   years,   and    streaked    with    silvery 

strands, 

If  her  bright  hair  has  still  the  sun-warm  color 
It  wore  when  on  my  breast  I  used  to  lull  her, 
Smoothing  its  shining  waves  with  loving  hands. 

While  time  has  aged  and  saddened  me  so  greatly, 

Has  she  outgrown  each  changing  childish  mood  ? 
By  the  still  waters  does  she  walk  sedately 
A  tall  and  radiant  spirit,  fair  and  stately, 
In  the  full  prime  of  perfect  angelhood  ? 

In  that  far  dwelling,  where  I  cannot  reach  her, 
Has  she  who  was  so  fragile  and  so  sweet,  — 


A  BIRTHDAY.  51 

An  untaught  babe,  a  tender  little  creature,  — 
Grown  wise  enough  to  be  my  guide  and  teacher, 
And  will  her  presence  awe  me  when  we  meet  ? 

Oh,  if  her  baby  face  has  waxed  no  older, 
Or  if  to  angel  stature  she  has  grown  — 
Whether  as  child  or  woman  I  behold  her, 
With  what  wild  rapture  will  these  arms  enfold  her  — 
This  longing  heart  reclaim  her  for  its  own ! 


THE  MORNING  OF  THE  YEAR. 

A  TENDER  music,  new  and  rare, 
Breaks  up  the  songless  silences,  — 

The  voice  of  the  entreating  air 
Soliciting  the  leafless  trees. 

"  Awake,"  it  calls  —  "  O  bashful  buds, 
The  prelude  of  the  birds  is  here,  — 

The  sunlight  falls  in  gracious  floods, 
It  is  the  morning  of  the  year  ! 

"  The  lily-bulbs,  unf earing,  sprout 
Along  the  garden-border's  edge, 

While  peach  trees  stand  in  blushing  doubt, 
And  half  distrust  spring's  timid  pledge ; 

"  The  sparrow,  constant  evermore, 

Begins  anew  his  insect-quest, 
The  wren,  beside  the  open  door, 

Peers  curious  at  her  last  year's  nest  — 

"  The  bluebird  tunes  his  bravest  lay 
And  fills  the  morn  with  sudden  trills, 
(52) 


THE  MDRXING  OF  THE  YEAR.       53 

Soft  lines  of  greenness  mark  the  way 
Of  watercourses  down  the  hills  — 

"  Awake,  dull  world,  and  cast  aside 
The  mouldy  robes  of  age  and  care, 

Put  on  thy  Eden-youth  and  pride  — 
Be  glad  again,  and  strong,  and  fair ! 

"  Awake,  awake,  0  drowsy  buds  — 
The  prelude  of  the  birds  is  here, 

The  sunlight  falls  in  tender  floods, 
It  is  the  morning  of  the  year ! " 


WINTER-KILLED. 

BENEATH  the  snow  the  roses  sleep, 
Below  the  wave  the  pearls  lie  deep  — 
Wedged  in  the  rock-rift,  centuries  old, 
Lie  yellow  veins  of  virgin  gold  ; 
Ice-locked  within  the  forest  nook, 
Sleeps  the  bright  spirit  of  the  brook, 
And  under  more  than  wintry  fate 
Or  ocean's  depths  or  boulder's  weight, 
Or  fettering  ice  or  frozen  grass, 
Dishonored  love  lies  dead,  alas  ! 

Yet  spring  shall  wake  the  rose  once  more, 
The  diver  bring  the  pearl  to  shore, 
With  sturdy  toil  the  miner  bold 
Shall  blast  the  rock  and  glean  the  gold; 
And  April  set  the  brooklet  free 
To  seek  its  waiting  bride,  the  sea,  — 
But  not  spring's  vivifying  kiss, 
Nor  summer  rain's  persuasiveness, 
Nor  toil,  nor  search,  nor  patient  pain, 
Can  bring  dead  love  to  life  again ! 
(54) 


DAY  AND  NIGHT. 

EKE  wholly  fails  the  waning  light, 

The  moon,  amid  heaven's  cloudy  hosts 

Leading  the  starry  ranks  of  night, 

Sends  softly  down  her  banner  white, 

Bringing  to  earth's  wide  isles  and  coasts 

A  blessed  truce  from  noise  and  strife  — 

A  breath-space  for  the  inner  life. 

Sweet  thoughts,  by  daylight  banished  hence, 

Return  to  comfort  and  to  heal 
The  weariness  of  soul  and  sense  — 
And  on  the  lips  of  turbulence 

The  starlight  sets  its  silver  seal ; 
Dim  pinions  fan  the  fragrant  damps, 
And  fire-flies  trim  their  living  lamps. 

The  dew-born  primrose  bursts,  and  flings 

Its  perfume  in  a  sudden  gush ; 
Moths  flit  on  silver-dusted  wings, 
And  scores  of  fair  and  happy  things 

Rejoice  in  the  harmonious  hush ; 
(55) 


56  DAY  AND  NIGHT. 

A  bird  that  dreams  of  carolling 
Chirps  faint,  with  head  behind  his  wing. 

By  day  the  city  strives  and  strains, 
And  labors  in  its  smoke  and  dust 
Like  some  great  giant  bound  with  chains, 
Sore  scourged  with  rods  and  racked  with  pains, 

And  doomed  to  servitude  unjust ; 
But  when  the  tiresome  day  goes  down, 
The  slave  may  dream  of  throne  and  crown. 

By  day  the  vulture  swoops  and  feeds, 

And  beats  his  fellows  with  his  wings ; 
By  night  all  violence  recedes  — 
The  whip-poor-will's  mild  patience  pleads  — 

Shrilly  and  clear  the  cricket  sings  ; 
And  while  the  stream  its  story  weaves, 
The  wind  talks  softly  with  the  leaves. 

If  day  be  storm,  and  night  be  calm  — 
If  day  be  toil,  and  night  release  — 
If  day  be  pain,  and  night  be  balm  — 
If  day  be  discord,  night  a  psalm  — 

If  day  be  war,  and  night  be  peace  — 
If  day  be  life,  and  night  be  death, 
Why  hold  so  dear  this  mortal  breath  ? 


DAY  AND  NIGHT.  57 

Why  plead  and  shudder  and  bewail, 

When  those  who  stand  our  souls  most  near 

Slip  from  our  clasp,  and,  mute  and  pale, 

Recede  behind  the  misty  veil 

That  hides  from  us  a  higher  sphere  ? 

Why  shrink  with  anguish  and  affright 

If  life  be  day  and  death  be  night  ? 
Why  grieve  to  see  them  pass  away, 
Since  night  is  sweeter  far  than  day  ? 


KITTY  GARY. 

No  marble  tells  where  Kitty  Gary  sleeps  — 

Only  a  simple  slab  of  painted  pine, 
Time-stained  and  worn,  her  poor  memorial  keeps  — 

One  brief  and  half -obliterated  line  — 

So  near  the  highway,  that  the  yellow  sand 

From  passing  wheels  falls  thickly  on  her  grave  — 

In  death,  as  in  her  life,  proscribed  and  banned  — 
For  Kitty  Gary  lived  and  died  a  slave. 

Ay,  lived  and  died  before  the  Almighty's  hand 

Struck  the  strong  fetters  from  the  bondman's  limbs, 

And  made  the  farthest  borders  of  the  land 

Shake   with   her   dark-browed  kindred's  freedom 
hymns. 

Alas !  too  early  snapped  the  silver  cord, 
Or  all  too  slowly  came  the  tardy  good  — 

Life  was  to  her  but  toil  without  reward  : 
And  death  the  welcome  end  of  servitude. 
(58) 


KITTY  CABY.  59 

Death  brought  her  freedom.     Haply  it  may  be 
That  Kitty  Gary,  from  some  fairer  sphere, 

Looks  down  to-day  and  pities  tenderly 
The  bitter  bondage  of  existence  here ; 

Yet  smiles  to  see  her  race  with  freedom  crowned, 

Subject  no  longer  to  a  master's  rule, 
Nor  grieves  because  their  thoughtless  children  bound 

Across  her  grave-mound,  on  their  way  to  school ; 

For  nothing  guards  her  humble  place  of  rest, 
The  straying  cattle  browse  above  her  head, 

Untended  goats  pause  in  their  hungry  quest 
To  crop  the  scanty  herbage  from  her  bed. 

Yet  Nature's  self  has  not  forgotten  her, 

But  decks  her  lonely  grave  with  dainty  grace ; 

See !  in  the  wind  the  blossomed  sweet-briars  stir, 
And  scatter  fragrance  round  her  resting-place. 


WITH  THEE. 

IF  I  could  know  that  after  all 

These  heavy  bonds  have  ceased  to  thrall, 
We,  whom  in  life  the  fates  divide, 
Should  sweetly  slumber  side  by  side  — 

That  one  green  spray  would  drop  its  dew 

Softly  alike  above  us  two, 

All  would  be  well,  for  I  should  be 
At  last,  dear  loving  heart,  with  thee  ! 

How  sweet  to  know  this  dust  of  ours, 
Mingling,  will  feed  the  self-same  flowers,  — 
The  scent  of  leaves,  the  song-bird's  tone, 
At  once  across  our  rest  be  blown,  — 
One  breadth  of  sun,  one  sheet  of  rain 
Make  green  the  grass  above  us  twain ! 
Ah,  sweet  and  strange,  for  I  should  be, 
At  last,  dear  tender  heart,  with  thee ! 

But  half  the  earth  may  intervene 
Thy  place  of  rest  and  mine  between  — 
(60) 


WITH  THEE.  61 

And  leagues  of  laud  and  wastes  of  waves 

May  stretch  and  toss  between  our  graves  — 
Thy  bed  with  summer  light  be  warm 
"While  snow-drifts  heap,  in  wind  and  storm, 

My  pillow,  whose  one  thorn  will  be, 

Beloved,  that  I  am  not  with  thee  ! 

But  if  there  be  a  blissful  sphere 
Where  homesick  souls,  divided  here, 
And  wandering  wide  in  useless  quest, 
Shall  find  their  longed-for  heaven  of  rest,  — 
If  in  that  higher,  happier  birth 
We  meet  the  joy  we  missed  on  earth, 
All  will  be  well,  for  I  shall  be, 
At  last,  dear  loving  heart,  with  thee  ! 


A  PINE  TREE. 

A  HANDFUL  of  moss  from  the  woodside, 

Dappled  with  gold  and  brown, 
I  borrowed,  to  gladden  my  chamber 

In  the  heart  of  the  dusty  town  ; 
And  here,  in  the  flickering  shadows 

Traced  by  my  window-vine, 
It  has  nursed  into  life  and  freshness 

The  germ  of  a  giant  pine. 

I  turn  from  the  cool-bosomed  lilies 

Dewy  the  whole  day  through  — 
From  the  flaunting  torches  of  tulips 

Flame-like  in  form  and  hue  — 
From  the  gorgeous  geraniums'  glory, 

From  the  trellis  where  roses  twine, 
To  welcome  this  sturdy  stranger, 

This  poor  little  alien  pine. 

Out  of  this  feeble  seedling 

What  wonders  the  years  may  bring ! 

(62) 


A  PINE  TREE.  63 

Its  stem  may  defy  the  tempest, 
Its  limbs  in  the  whirlwind  sing  — 

For  age,  which  to  men  comes  laden 
With  weakness  and  sure  decline, 

Will  add  only  growth  and  beauty 
And  strength  to  this  tiny  pine. 

Hark  !  is  it  an  airy  fancy  ? 

The  roar  of  its  storm-wrung  limbs, 
Then  the  sigh  of  its  tender  tassels 

To  the  twilight  zephyr-hymns  ; 
The  rain  on  its  thick  soft  greenness, 

When  the  spring  skies  weep  and  shine  — 
O,  many  and  mighty  the  voices 

Haunting  this  tiny  pine  ! 

Shops,  and  the  jar  of  machinery, 

Mills,  and  the  shudder  of  wheels  — 
Wharves,  and  the  bustle  of  commerce, 

Ships,  and  the  rushing  of  keels  — 
Towns,  and  the  hurry  of  living, 

The  murmur  which  none  may  define, 
I  hear  and  see  as  I  listen 

Watching  this  tiny  pine. 

I  will  take  it  again  to  the  woodside, 
That  safe  with  its  kindred  there, 


64  A  PINE  TREE. 

Its  evergreen  arms  may  broaden 
Yearly  more  strong  and  fair ; 

And  long  after  weeds  and  brambles 
Grow  over  this  head  of  mine, 

The  wild-birds  will  build  and  warble 
In  the  boughs  of  my  grateful  pine. 


TRUE  MOTHERHOOD. 

OXCE  while  the  Christ  walked  visibly  on  earth, 
He  took  the  seeming  of  a  little  child, 
And  trod  the  weary  highways  up  and  down, 
A  poor  lost  baby,  crying  bitterly  — 
His  white  feet  bruised  with  pebbles,  and  his  curls 
Tear-wet  and  tangled  all  about  his  face, 
Whose  more  than  mortal  beauty  had  become 
Dim  with  much  grief  and  crying. 

A  stately  lady,  rich  and  beautiful, 

Passed  in  her  gilded  chariot,  and  afar 

Saw  the  poor  infant,  weeping  as  he  went, 

And   called   to   him.     "Why   weepest    thou?"    she 

said  — 

"  Come  here  and  I  will  comfort  thee,  fair  child  ! " 
"  I  cannot  come,"  the  grieving  babe  replied, 
"  I  seek  my  mother."     And  he  wept  anew, 

And  wandered  on,  still  crying. 

"  Sweet  cherub,"  said  the  lady,  "  yet  come  here  — 
I  am  thy  mother  —  see,  I  wait  for  thee  — 
(65) 


66  TRUE  MOTHERHOOD. 

Come !  thou  shalt  be  my  darling  and  my  own, 
Shalt  have  the  daintiest  broidered  robes  to  wear, 
And  silken  sandals  on  thy  poor  bruised  feet,  — 
And  fare  most  delicately  every  day ; 
I  am  indeed  thy  mother,  lovely  child, 

Come  here,  and  cease  thy  crying !  " 

"  Art  thou  indeed  my  mother  ?  "  asked  the  child, 
Hushing  his  sobs  a  moment  as  he  looked  — 
"  Thy  face  is  fair,  and  thou  art  richly  clad, 
And  speakest  sweetly  —  but  I  fear  that  thou 
Art  not  indeed  my  mother  —  woe  is  me ! 
Wert  thou  indeed  my  mother,  as  thou  saidst, 
Thou  wouldst  not  call  to  me  and  say  '  Come  here ! 
And  let  me  soothe  thy  crying ! ' 

"  But  thou  wouldst  haste  to  bid  thy  chariot  stay, 
Wouldst  get  thee  down,  and  come  and  take  me  up, 
Wouldst  hold  me  in  thy  arms  and  comfort  me, 
And  heal  my  pain.     Ah,  no,  sweet  lady,  thou 
Art  not  indeed  my  mother !  "     And  he  held 
His  mantle  to  his  face  and  wept  again, 
And  would  not  be  entreated  from  his  grief, 
But  went  his  way,  still  crying. 


INCONSTANCY. 

AGATNTST  the  curtained  pane,  beloved, 

The  snow  beats  thick  and  fast ; 
The  wild  wind's  sorrowing  refrain 

Is  telling  of  the  past ; 
And  in  the  old  familiar  chair, 

Beside  the  hearth-fire's  glow, 
I  sit  and  sing  the  tender  air 

You  loved  so  long  ago. 

Ah,  often  since  the  springs,  beloved, 

Have  bloomed  above  your  rest, 
I  breathe  the  sweet  old  song  that  sings 

Itself  within  my  breast  — 
As  children,  in  the  cheerless  days 

When  winter  darkly  lowers, 
Retrace  the  garden's  sodden  ways, 

And  talk  of  last  year's  flowers. 

It  never  seemed  to  you,  beloved, 
When  we  walked  hand  in  hand, 
(67) 


68  INCONSTANCY. 

Amid  the  sunshine  and  the  dew 
Of  youth's  enchanted  land  — 

It  never  seemed  to  you  or  me 
That  I  could  sing  or  smile 

If  you  were  lying  silently 
Within  your  grave  the  while. 

We  thought  we  could  not  live,  beloved, 

If  we  were  torn  apart  — 
That  earth  would  have  no  more  to  give 

To  either  stricken  heart ; 
Alas,  the  change  that  time  has  wrought ! 

Your  grave  has  held  you  long, 
And  in  a  home  where  you  are  not, 

I  sing  the  dear  old  song ! 

Do  you  look  back  to  me,  beloved, 

From  out  your  happy  sphere, 
And  deem  me  false,  that  I  can  be 

Alive,  and  you  not  here  ? 
Death  does  not  always  bring  its  balm 

To  every  aching  ill  — 
Life  may  outlast  its  dearest  charm, 

And  heart-break  does  not  kill. 

It  would  have  been  the  same,  beloved, 
Had  I  been  first  to  die ; 


INCONSTANCY.  69 

Another  love  had  worn  your  name, 

More  dear,  perchance,  than  I ; 
Ah,  after  all  these  weary  years, 

"Would  you  more  constant  be  ? 
And  would  you  drop  these  bitter  tears, 

And  sing  the  song  for  me  ? 


BRIER-BLOOM. 

• 

THE  wild  azaleas  sweeten  all  the  woods, 
The  locust  swings  its  garlands  of  perfume, 

But  sweetest  of  all  sweets,  to-day  there  broods 
Along  the  slopes  of  green  and  golden  gloom 
The  scent  of  brier-bloom. 

Sweetest  of  sweets  and  fairest  of  all  flowers,  — 
A  snowy  wreath  of  delicate  blossoming, 

The  blackberry-bramble  creeps  and  hides,  or  towers 
Above  the  budding  shrubs,  with  clasp  and  cling 
Bowering  the  realm  of  spring. 

Roses  are  warmer  with  their  passionate  red, 
Lilies  are  queenlier  with  their  hearts  of  snow, 

Magnolia  cups  a  heavier  incense  shed, 

But  when  I  would  be  tranced  with  sweet,  I  go 
Where  the  sharp  briers  grow. 

Brave  must  the  hand  be,  which  would  bear  away 
Their   snowy  length,  and    dare    the   threatened 

doom, 

(70) 


BRIER-BLOOM.  71 

Yet  when  is  past  my  woodland  holiday, 

I  can  but  smile  at  wounds,  and  deck  my  room 
With  wreaths  of  brier-bloom. 

Some  souls  I  love  are  twinned  with  flowers  like  these, 
Recluse,  and  shrinking  from  the  broadest  day, 

And  full  of  delicatest  fragrances  — 

Yet  with  keen  pride  to  hold  false  friends  at  bay, 
And  keep  the  world  away. 


AFTER  THE  STORM. 

THE  vexed  and  threatening  sky  grew  calm, 
By  evening's  mild  approach  consoled  — 
Remote  in  its  dissolving  cloud, 

The  thunder  farther,  faintlier  rolled, 
And  sunset's  sudden  alchemy  changed  all  the  leaden 
west  to  gold. 

The  splendor  softened  into  peace, 

The  warm  hues  paled  in  slow  decline, 
Yet  still  the  waters  of  the  bay 

Lay  golden-bright  as  amber  wine, 
While  red  infrequent  lightnings  winked  along  the  low 
horizon  line. 

Lightly  between  the  sky  and  wave, 

A  cradling  boat  swung  soft  and  slow ; 
Rapt  and  removed  from  all  the  world, 
Two  faces  caught  the  heavenly  glow, 
And   two   wide-wandering  souls   regained  the  Eden 
lost  so  long  ago. 

(72) 


AFTER  THE  STORM.  73 

The  faint  breeze  slumbered  on  the  deep  — 

The  few  stars  trembled  in  the  blue  — 
A  sacred  hush  held  wave  and  air, 

As  though  all  loving  nature  knew 
That  eyes  and  hearts  and  lips  at  last  were  utterly  and 
only  true. 

"What  eloquence  of  happy  speech, 

What  art  of  story  or  of  song, 
Can  reach  the  bliss  of  that  sweet  hour 

When,  chastened  by  denial  long, 
Love's  everlasting  patience   reaps  divine  reward  for 
years  of  wrong  ? 

A  tender  dawning  warmed  the  east  — 
The  boat  came  softly  to  the  shore  — 
Labor  and  care  and  tumult  claimed 

Those  hushed,  transfigured  souls  once  more, 
But  nothing  in  those  mingled  lives  could  be  again  as 
heretofore. 


VICTOR. 

TRUE,  he  was  not  mine  ;  I  could  not  claim  him  ; 

Was  he,  then,  less  precious  or  less  fair  ? 
Are  we  all  so  selfish  and  so  narrow 

That  we  love  but  those  whose  blood  we  share  ? 

Ten  years  since,  he  was  a  rare  and  perfect 

Type  of  sweet  ideal  babyhood  ; 
Like  a  fairy  infant,  found  by  moonlight 

In  the  edge  of  an  enchanted  wood. 

Like  a  shining  crown  upon  his  forehead 
Lay  the  soft  rings  of  his  amber  hair ; 

Never  gentle  soul  had  lovelier  casket, 
Never  was  a  mortal  child  more  fair. 

Like  a  lake's  calm  quiet  in  the  forest, 

Were  the  peace  and  clearness  of  his  eyes,  — 
Full  of  slumbrous  lights  and  warm,  brown  shad 
ows,  — 

Dark,  yet  not  forgetful  of  the  skies. 
(74) 


VICTOR.  75 

Then  I  lost  him.  Farther  toward  the  sunset 
Into  childhood's  active  life  he  grew, 

Finding  friends  in  all  things  pure  and  lovely, 
Bird,  bloom,  sunshine,  butterfly,  and  dew. 

Child  of  poets,  how  could  he  be  other 

Than  a  subtle  poet-spirit,  too  ? 
Fine,  magnetic,  quick  to  see  and  follow 

Beckonings  of  the  beautiful  and  true  ? 

Like  a  fate,  unguessed  and  unforeshadowed, 
Dropped  upon  his  life  its  cruel  doom, 

While  the  echo  of  his  laugh  still  sounded, 
And  his  cheek  yet  wore  its  touch  of  bloom. 

At  one  moment  full  of  life  and  archness, 
Merry,  eager,  vigorous,  and  sweet  — 

In  another,  smitten  as  by  lightning  — 
Lying  lifeless  at  his  mother's  feet. 

Yet  the  last  faint  effort  of  his  being, 

Ere  the  fluttering  life-pulse  could  depart, 

TVas  to  whisper  one  sweet  word  of  comfort 
To  her  shocked,  despairing,  broken  heart. 

No  sharp  pang  of  lingering  pain  or  illness 

Marred  his  perfect  face  or  thinned  his  form  — 


76  VICTOR. 

In  a  moment's  space  he  lay  there  stricken 
Like  a  lily  by  a  sudden  storm. 

Who  will  rightly,  in  the  clouded  future, 
Fill  his  place  our  commoner  souls  among  ? 

Who  will  know  the  truths  he  would  have  told  us  ? 
Who  will  sing  the  songs  he  would  have  sung  ? 


A   PICTURE. 

WITHIN  my  room's  serene  seclusion, 
Dwells  evermore  a  pictured  face, 

Dream-haunted,  like  a  rapt  Carthusian, 
With  solemn  eyes  of  tenderest  grace, 

Which  seem  to  compass  land  and  sea, 
Yet  never  look  on  me. 

O,  eyes  which  gaze  beyond  and  over, 
Yet  never  meet  and  answer  mine, 

What  may  your  steadfast  quest  discover 
On  the  horizon's  hazy  line  ? 

What  charm  in  yonder  distance  lies, 
O,  sad  and  wistful  eyes  ? 

Hopeful  despite  their  depth  of  grieving, 

Still  patiently  they  watch  afar, 
As  though  awaiting  or  perceiving 

The  dawn  of  some  unrisen  star  — 
The  star  which  often  and  again 

My  own  have  sought  in  vain. 
(77) 


78  A  PICTURE. 

Sometimes  methinks  its  growing  splendor 
Brightens  and  glows  on  brow  and  cheek, 

The  eyes  grow  luminous  and  tender, 
The  lips  half  tremble  as  to  speak, 

And  all  the  face  transfigured  seems 
By  sweet  prophetic  dreams. 

Ah,  if  when  years  have  told  their  story, 
Those  dreams  shall  come  divinely  true, 

That  dim  dawn  bloom  to  sudden  glory  — 
This  face  will  shine  as  angels'  do,  — 

These  eyes,  more  dear  than  angels'  be, 
Will  look  —  at  last  —  on  me  ! 


DROUGHT. 

THE  sun  uprises,  large  and  red, 

The  dawn  is  lost  in  a  sultry  glow ; 
like  a  furnace  roof  is  the  heaven  o'erbead. 

Like  tinder  the  thirsty  earth  below ; 
Hushed  is  the  grateful  voice  of  streams, 

The  famished  fountains  and  brooks  are  dry ; 
And  day  by  day  do  the  burning  beams 

Pour  from  the  pitiless  sky. 

All  things  languish  and  fade  and  pine ; 

Buds  are  withered  before  they  bloom ; 
The  blighted  leaves  of  the  window-vine 

Chase  each  other  about  the  room; 
Vapors  gather,  then  melt  in  light ; 

Rain-clouds  promise,  then  burn  away ; 
And  all  hearts  faint  as  the  sultry  night 

Follows  the  sultry  day. 

Sadly  adown  the  orchard  lines 

The  apples  shrivel  and  shrink  and  fall ; 
-        (79) 


80  DROUGHT. 

The  scanty  clusters  among  the  vines 
Wilt,  half-ripe,  on  the  scorching  wall ; 

The  peaches  perish  before  their  prime, 
The  trim  espaliers  are  bare  and  lorn  — 

Dry  and  dead,  as  in  winter  time, 
Stand  the  ranks  of  the  curling  corn. 

No  longer  the  cool  and  gurgling  songs 

Of  warblers  freshen  the  lifeless  air ; 
The  simmering  noise  of  the  insect  throngs 

Sound  incessantly  everywhere ; 
The  ringing  rasp  of  the  locust  comes 

Piercing  the  sense  like  a  wedge  of  sound ; 
The  wasp  from  his  nest  in  the  gable  hums, 

And  the  cricket  shrills  from  the  ground. 

The  hard  dry  grasshopper,  snugly  hid, 

Grates  his  sharpest,  and  thinks  he  sings; 
The  castanets  of  the  katydid 

Chime  with  the  rattle  of  sharded  wings  ; 
Blundering,  booming,  the  beetles  pass, 

While  bats  flit  silent,  as  daylight  dies  ; 
And  loud  in  the  tangles  of  seedy  grass 

The  peevish  cat-bird  cries. 

Open-billed,  with  his  wings  a-droop, 

The  wren  sits  silent,  and  seeks  no  more 


DROUGHT.  81 

The  half-built  nest  in  the  sunny  stoop, 

Or  the  children's  crumbs  by  the  open  door ; 

Rustling  with  dead  and  brittle  stalks 

The  paths  of  the  garden  are  thick  with  dust ; 

And  the  rows  of  flower-beds  down  the  walks 
Are  baked  to  an  ashy  crust. 

Parched  to  blackness  the  roses  die, 

Robbed  of  sweetness  and  form  and  hue ; 
Vainly  the  languid  butterfly 

Seeks,  as  of  old,  their  garnered  dew ; 
Vain  the  humming-bird's  sweet  pursuit ; 

The  honey-bee's  quest  is  sparely  crowned  ; 
Happy  the  mole  that  gnaws  a  root 

In  his  cool  nest  underground  ! 

The  fading  foliage  of  waiting  woods, 

The  fields  all  barren  and  bare  and  brown, 
The  city's  suffering  multitudes, 

The  parching  roofs  of  the  thirsty  town, 
The  herds  which  snuff  at  the  yellow  grass, 

The  leaves  which  open  their  palms  in  vain, 
The  sea  that  mirrors  a  sky  like  brass  — 

All  these  do  pray  for  rain. 


IN  PEACE. 

COME,  let  us  make  his  pleasant  grave 

Upon  this  shady  shore, 
Where  the  sad  river,  wave  on  wave, 

Shall  grieve  forevermore  ; 
O  long  and  sweet  shall  be  his  dream 

Lulled  by  its  soothing  flow  — 
Sigh  softly,  softly,  shining  stream, 

Because  he  loved  you  so  ! 

Fair  blossom-daughters  of  the  May, 

So  lovely  in  your  bloom, 
Your  ranks  must  stand  aside  to-day 

To  give  our  darling  room ; 
These  dew-drops  which  you  shed  in  showers 

Are  loving  tears,  I  know  — 
Bloom  brightly,  brightly,  grateful  flowers, 

Because  he  loved  you  so ! 

Here  ah1  the  warm,  long  summer  days 
The  yellow  bees  shall  come, 

(82) 


IN  PEACE.  83 

Coquetting  down  the  blossomy  ways 

With  loud  and  ringing  hum ; 
While  warbling  in  the  sunny  trees 

The  birds  flit  to  and  fro  — 
Sing  sweetly,  sweetly,  birds  and  bees, 

Because  he  loved  you  so  ! 

Here  with  their  soft  and  cautious  tread, 

The  light  feet  of  the  shower 
Shall  walk  about  his  grassy  bed, 

And  cool  the  sultry  hour  ; 
Yet  may  not  wake  to  smiles  again 

The  eyes  which  sleep  below  — 
Fall  lightly,  lightly,  pleasant  rain, 

Because  he  loved  you  so  ! 

And  when  the  summer's  voice  is  dumb, 

And  lost  her  bloomy  grace, 
When  sighing  autumn  tempests  come 

To  weep  above  the  place, 
Till  all  the  forest  boughs  are  thinned, 

Their  leafy  pride  laid  low  — 
Grieve  gently,  gently,  wailing  wind, 

Because  he  loved  you  so ! 

And  when  beneath  the  chilly  light 
That  crowns  the  winter  day, 


84  IN  PEACE. 

The  storms  shall  clothe  his  grave  in  white, 
And  shut  the  world  away,  — 

Above  his  sweet  untroubled  rest 
Fall  soft,  caressing  snow  — 

Drift  tenderly  across  his  breast, 
Because  he  loved  you  so ! 


LOST   DAYS. 

FOR  many  tedious  nights  and  days, 
Within  this  dim  imprisoning  room, 

My  soul  has  groped  amid  the  maze 
Of  weariness  and  pain  and  gloom  — 

And  as  I  look  abroad  again 

On  verdant  hill,  and  heavy  tree, 

And  furrowed  field,  and  cultured  plain, 
It  seems  another  world  to  me. 

For  I  have  lost  the  fairest  sight, 
The  dearest  days  of  all  the  year  — 

The  sweet  beginnings  of  delight, 

The  summer's  gradual  drawing  near ; 

The  new  weeds  pushing  freshly  up  — 
The  eager  growing  of  the  grass  — 

The  first  ambitious  buttercup  — 
The  maple's  morning  red,  alas  — 

The  first  strong  throbs  of  nature's  heart, 
When  spring  her  vital  magic  weaves  — 
(85) 


86  LOST  DAYS. 

The  bursting  of  the  buds  apart, 
The  crisp  uncurling  of  the  leaves. 

'T  is  like  a  dream  of  pain  and  dread  — 
I  closed  my  eyes  in  winter  time, 

And  when  once  more  I  lift  my  head, 
The  spring  is  in  its  perfect  prime. 

The  wrens  which  fashion,  every  spring, 
Their  happy  nest  above  my  door, 

Have  taught  their  young  to  fly  and  sing, 
As  in  all  pleasant  Mays  before  — 

And  I  have  lost  their  merry  notes, 
Their  fearless  questions  and  replies, 

The  tuning  of  their  joyful  throats, 
The  querying  of  their  curious  eyes. 

Along  the  walk  the  bushes  sway 
Heavy  with  roses  ripe  and  fair  — 

The  tall  syringas  all  the  day 

Sweeten  to  faintness  all  the  air ; 


The  full-blown  clover's  fragrance  floods 
The  land  with  odor  far  and  near  — 

Ah !  I  have  lost  the  time  of  buds, 
The  dearest  days  in  all  the  year  ! 


FALSE   AND   TRUE. 

r 
Two  walked  under  the  olive  trees  shading  the  walls 

of  an  ancient  town, 

Long  ago,  as  with  gold  and  purple  canopied  bravely 
the  sun  went  down. 

Strangely  mated  for  lovers,  they  —  he  an  eagle,  and 

she  a  dove  — 
He  with  eyes  of  prophecy,  under  such  a  forehead  as 

laurels  love ; 

She  with  bashful  and  tender  face,  softly  radiant  with 

love's  surprise  — 
Flushed  with  pink,  like  a  peach-tree  blossom  under 

the  fair  Italian  skies. 

"  Farewell,   darling,"  he   smiling  said  ;  "  though  this 

parting  be  bitter  pain, 
To  the  labor  whose  crowning  waits  me  I  must  go  — 

but  I  come  again. 

(87) 


88  FALSE  AND  TRUE. 

"  Then,  sweet  love,  how  your  heart  will  beat !  From 
your  swallow's  nest  looking  down 

You  shall  see  how  the  eager  people  greet  me  back  to 
the  dear  old  town  ! 

"  Years  may  pass  ere  that  golden  day,  fate  and  for 
tune  may  be  unkind,, 

Yet  no  woman  shall  call  me  husband,  save  the  dear 
one  I  leave  behind. 

"  Will  you  love  me  with  patient  love  ?  —  hold  me  pre 
cious  the  long  years  through? 

Let  us  see,  when  the  test  is  over,  which  of  our  two 
hearts  proves  most  true !  " 

So  he  followed  his  guiding  star  to  the  region  of  song 

and  art, 
Wrought  his  dreams  in  the  deathless  marble,  wooing 

Fame  with  a  lover's  heart. 

Every  shape  of  immortal  youth  which  the  soul  of  the 

artist  thrills, 
Charmed  to  sleep  by  some  weird  enchanter  under  the 

fair  Carrara  hills  — 

Gods  and  heroes  of  days  gone  by,  saints  and  cherubs, 
a  shining  band  — 


FALSE  AND  TRUE.  89 

Woke  and  rose,  in  their  snowy  beauty,  perfect  under 
his  master-hand. 

Friendship  sought  him,  and  praise,  and  power ;  many 
a  heart  he  wronged  and  rent ; 

Many  a  worship  he  won  and  wasted  —  smiling,  spoil 
ing,  where'er  he  went  — 

Went  the  way  that  an  artist  loves,  skimming  the  self 
ish  sweets  of  life  — 

Giving  to  no  one  noble  woman,  loved  and  reverenced, 
the  name  of  wife  ; 

Yet  he  frittered  his  heart  away,   little   by  little,  on 

many  shrines, 
Keeping  nothing  for  her  who,  waiting,  looked  for  him 

through  her  window  vines. 

So  his  beautiful  years  went  by,  charmed  by  honors 

and  ease  and  gold, 
Till  at  last,  after  fourscore  summers,  all  the  days  of 

his  life  were  told. 

Then  they  took  him  in  splendid  state,  back  once  more 

to  the  dear  old  town, 
Where  with  his  early  love  he  wandered  long  ago  as 

the  sun  went  down. 


90  FALSE  AND  TRUE. 

Down  the   street   as  his  funeral  passed,  leaning  out 

from  her  casement  high, 
Pale  and  trembling,  a  white-haired  woman  gazed  and 

wept  as  the  crowd  went  by. 

All   are    conquered   by    Fate   or    Time  —  there   are 

changes  in  fifty  years  — 
Fifty  years !  and  alas,  a  widow  gave  the  dead  man 

these  burning  tears. 

She  whose  youth  he  had  sorely  wronged,  she  whose 

heart  he  had  starved  and  slain, 
Now  at  his  tardy  coming  uttered  all  her  passionate 

grief  and  pain. 

Eating  the  bread  of  lonely  toil,  she  had  waited  through 

tedious  years, 
Hoping  all  things,  in   tears   and    silence,    fond   and 

faithful  despite  her  fears  ; 

Then  with  a  languid,  cold  consent,  after  patience  and 

hope  were  dead, 
Wedded  another,  whose  constant  passion  sought  her 

still,  though  her  youth  had  fled. 

Moan  of  people  and  chant  of  priest  rose  and  wailed 
like  a  soul  in  woe  ; 


FALSE  AND  TRUE.  91 

Plumes  like  midnight,  and  trailing  sables  slowly  swept 
through  the  street  below. 

"  Oh,  my  darling !  "  she  sobbed  aloud,  shaken  sore  by 
her  utter  woe, 

"  Oh,  my  dearest,  is  this  the  coming  which  you  prom 
ised  so  long  ago  ? 

"  Taunt  me  not  with  my  broken  troth,  O  my  love 

whom  I  still  adore  ! 
You  who  lived  in  the  love  of  women,  winning,  wasting 

forevermore  — 

"  You  who  honor  the  empty  husk  of  your  vow  when 

your  lips  are  dumb,  — 
No  proud  woman  has  called  you  husband,   and  you 

come  —  as  you  pledged  to  come. 

"  Loyal  to  him  whose  name  I  bore,  yet  I  loved  you, 

and  only  you  ; 
Judge    between  us,  O   Mary  mother,   which  is  the 

false  and  which  the  true  !  " 


THE   SILENT  BATTLE. 

THE  war  that  Spring  and  Winter  wage 
Goes  on  in  silence,  day  by  day ; 

Strong  youth  against  decrepid  age, 
New  growth  opposed  to  dark  decay ; 

The  strife  of  hope  against  despair, 

Life  against  death ;  and  morn  by  morn, 

A  tenderer  warmth  is  in  the  air, 

And  richer  hues  and  hopes  are  born. 

And  lo,  on  every  side  appears 

The  hurrying  host  of  Spring's  advance  - 
The  crowding  grass,  with  bristling  spears, 

The  brook-side  rushes'  ready  lance, 

The  javelins  of  daring  reeds, 

The  iris-sprout's  keen  bayonet-thrust, 

With  rank  and  file  of  sturdy  weeds 
Rising  exultant  from  the  dust. 

(92) 


THE  SILENT  BATTLE.  93 

Each  clay  a  fresher  guidon  flaunts. 

Marking  the  vantage-ground  by  turns  ; 

The  arrow-heads  of  water-plants, 

The  hard-clenched  fists  of  valiant  ferns, 

The  willow's  pennons,  brave  and  fair, 
The  wild-flag's  sharp  and  slender  blade, 

With  every  force  of  earth  and  air, 
Join  boldly  in  the  glad  crusade, 

Till  Winter's  sullen  struggles  cease, 
And  cold  and  darkness  fail  and  flee, 

And  all  the  hills  are  fair  with  peace, 
And  green  with  palms  of  victory. 


"UNTIL   DEATH." 

MAKE  me  no  vows  of  constancy,  dear  friend, 
To  love  me,  though  I  die,  thy  whole  life  long, 

And  love  no  other  till  thy  days  shall  end,  — 
Nay,  it  were  rash  and  wrong. 

It  would  not  make  me  sleep  more  peacefully, 
That  thou  wast  wasting  all  thy  life  in  woe 

For  my  poor  sake ;  what  love  thou  hast  for  me, 
Bestow  it  ere  I  go  ! 

Thou  wotildst  not  feel  my  shadowy  caress 
If,  after  death,  my  soul  should  linger  here  ; 

Men's  hearts  crave  tangible,  close  tenderness,  — 
Love's  presence,  warm  and  near. 

If  thou  canst  love  another,  be  it  so ; 

I  would  not  reach  out  of  my  quiet  grave 
To  bind  thy  heart,  if  it  should  choose  to  go  ;  — 

Love  should  not  be  a  slave. 
(94) 


"UNTIL  DEATH."  95 

My  placid  ghost,  I  trust,  will  walk  serene 

In  clearer  light  than  gilds  these  earthly  morns, 

Above  the  jealousies  and  envies  keen* 
Which  strew  this  life  with  thorns. 

Thou  wilt  meet  many  fairer  and  more  gay 
Than  I ;  but,  trust  me,  thou  canst  never  find 

One  who  will  love  and  serve  thee  night  and  day 
With  a  more  single  mind. 

Carve  not  upon  a  stone  when  I  go  hence, 
The  praises  which  remorseful  mourners  give 

To  buried  wives  —  a  tardy  recompense  — 
But  speak  them  while  I  live. 

Heap  not  the  heavy  marble  on  my  grave, 
To  shut  away  the  sunshine  and  the  dew ; 

Let  small  blooms  grow  there,  and  let  grasses  wave, 
And  rain-drops  filter  through. 

Forget  me  when  I  die  ;  the  violets 

Above  my  rest  will  blossom  just  as  blue, 

Nor  miss  thy  tears  ;  even  Nature's  self  forgets  ; 
But  while  I  live,  be  true  ! 


LITTLE   FEET. 

Two  little  feet,  so  small  that  both  may  nestle 

In  one  caressing  hand  — 
Two  tender  feet  upon  the  untried  border 

Of  Life's  mysterious  land  — 

Dimpled  and  soft,  and  pink  as  peach-tree  blossoms 

In  April's  fragrant  days, 
How  can  they  walk  among  the  briery  tangles 

Edging  the  world's  rough  ways  ? 

These  rose-white  feet  along  the  doubtful  future 

Must  bear  a  woman's  load ; 
Alas  !  since  woman  has  the  heaviest  burden, 

And  walks  the  hardest  road. 

Love,  for  a  while,  will  make  the  path  before  them 
All  dainty  smooth  and  fair  — 

Will  cull  away  the  brambles,  letting  only 
The  roses  blossom  there  ; 
(96) 


LITTLE  FEET.  97 

But  when  the  mother's  watchful  eyes  are  shrouded 

Away  from  sight  of  men, 
And  these  dear  feet  are  left  without  her  guiding, 

Who  shall  direct  them  then  ? 

How  will  they  be  allured,  betrayed,  deluded, 

Poor  little  untaught  feet !  — 
Into  what  dreary  mazes  will  they  wander  ? 

What  dangers  will  they  meet  ? 

Will  they  go  stumbling  blindly  in  the  darkness 

Of  Sorrow's  tearful  shades  ? 
Or  find  the  upland  slopes  of  Peace  and  Beauty, 

Whose  sunlight  never  fades  ? 

Will  they  go  toiling  up  Ambition's  summit, 

The  common  world  above  ? 
Or  in  some  nameless  vale,  securely  sheltered, 

Walk  side  by  side  with  Love  ? 

Some  feet  there  be  which  walk  life's  track  un wounded, 
Which  find  but  pleasant  ways  ; 

Some  hearts  there  be  to  which  this  world  is  only 
A  round  of  happy  days. 

But  they  are  few.     Far  more  there  are  who  wander 
Without  a  hope  or  friend  — 


98  LITTLE  FEET. 

Who  find  their  journey  full  of  pains  and  losses, 
And  long  to  reach  the  end. 

How  shall  it  be  with  her,  the  tender  stranger, 

Fair-faced  and  gentle-eyed, 
Before  whose  unstained  feet  the  world's  rude  highway 

Stretches  so  strange  and  wide  ? 

Ah !  who  may  read  the  future  ?     For  our  darling 

We  crave  all  blessings  sweet, 
And  pray  that  He  who  feeds  the  crying  ravens 

Will  guide  the  baby's  feet. 


THE   MAGNOLIA  TREE. 

THE  gradual  shades  of  the  twilight  fall, 

And  the  scents  of  flowers,  after  the  heat, 
Come  freshly  over  the  garden  wall  — 
But  one  rich  odor  transcends  them  all, 
Strong  and  subtle,  and  sweet,  how  sweet ! 

A  wonderful  fragrance,  deep  and  rare  — 

The  breath  of  the  great  magnolia  flower, 
That  after  the  long  day's  din  and  glare, 
Comes  softly  forth,  like  a  silent  prayer, 
To  bless  and  sweeten  the  grateful  hour. 

At  morn  to  the  sun's  enamored  rays 
It  opens  its  bosom's  snowy  prime  ; 

Pride  of  the  sultry  summer  days, 

It  gives  its  beauty  to  all  who  gaze, 

But  keeps  its  soul  for  the  twilight  time. 

And  when  the  valleys  grow  dim  with  night, 

And  the  skies  relent  from  their  noonday  heat, 
Its  long  leaves  shine  in  the  level  light, 
(99) 


100  THE  MAGNOLIA  TREE. 

And  its  wide  rich  flowers  of  luminous  white 
Slowly  close,  with  a  gush  of  sweet. 

I  see  it,  glinting  in  moonlit  air, 

With  blossoms  like  white  translucent  bowls 
Of  alabaster,  all  creamy  fair, 
Filled  with  a  fragrance  strange  and  rare 

As  a  waft  from  the  land  of  happy  souls. 

O  gentle  airs,  which  so  softly  blow, 

Wooing  their  beauty  lover-wise, 
Tell  me,  if  haply  ye  may  know, 
Is  this  like  the  lovely  trees  which  grow 

By  the  silver  streams  of  Paradise  ? 

For  if  Nature  holds  in  her  gardens  wide, 

One  thing  so  perfect  and  wholly  fair 
That  when  we  cross  to  the  other  side, 
Where  the    green  fields  smile  and  the  clear  waves 
glide, 

We  may  find  it,  grown  immortal,  there  — 

Safe  from  winter,  and  storm,  and  blight, 

Green  and  deathless,  it  seems  to  me 
It  is  this  fair  dweller  in  warmth  and  light, 
With  its  glossy  leaves  and  its  blossoms  white, 

The  beautiful  brave  magnolia  tree ! 


THE  MAGNOLIA  TREE.  101 

Queen  of  the  South  and  love  of  the  sun  ! 

Happy  indeed  must  the  sleeper  be 
Who  finds  his  rest,  when  at  last  't  is  won, 
And  the  dew  hangs  heavy,  and  day  is  done, 

Under  the  broad  magnolia  tree ! 


"HADST  THOU   BEEN  HERE." 

OFTEN  the  simple  words  return  to  me, 
Pathetic,  sad,  yet  full  of  faith  sincere, 

Breathed  by  the  mournful  maid  of  Bethany, 

In  her  deep  sorrow  and  humility, 

To   him  she   loved  so  well — "Hadst  thou  been 
here  !  " 

For  so,  O  helpful  heart,  I  think  of  thee, 

In  thy  continued  absence,  year  on  year,  — 
Saying,  when  loss  or  grief  has  come  to  me, 
And  I  have  lacked  thy  strength  so  utterly  — 

"  I  had  not  suffered  thus,  hadst  thou  been  here  !  " 

But  ah,  in  calmer  after-thought,  I  see 

By  reason's  light,  dispassionate  and  clear, 

That  all  thy  love  could  not  have  kept  from  me 

The  penalties  of  this  mortality, 

O  sheltering  soul,  even  hadst  thou  been  here  ! 

(102) 


"HADST  THOU  BEEN  HERE."  103 

For  had  thy  shielding  arm  encircled  me 

Through  all   the   years,   and  kept  me   close  and 

near, 

Still  in  my  treasure  moth  and  rust  would  be  — 
Still  pain  had  rent  and  toil  had  wearied  me, 

And  years  had  aged  me,  even   hadst  thou  been 
here. 

And  yet,  let  reason  argue  as  it  may, 

Those  words  still  hold  for  me  a  truth  most  dear  — 
For  though  thou  couldst  not  keep  all  grief  away, 
Thy  presence  would  have  changed  the  night  to  day, 

And  all  been  well  with  me,  hadst  thou  been  here ! 


HUGHENDEN. 

THE  loveliest  day  of  lovely  English  June, 

Bright  with  rare   sunshine,    crisp  and   fresh  with 

dew ; 
The  whole  fair  landscape  seems  created  new, 

And  just  to  live  is  a  delightful  boon. 

A  crystal  streamlet  pours  its  tinkling  tune 

Gurgling  and  murmuring  its  cresses  through  — 
The  velvet  greensward  wears  its  tenderest  hue, 

Dotted  with  daisies  thick  as  rain-drops  strewn,  — 

And  on  a  sudden  from  the  listening  ground 
There  springs  a  living  joy,  a  voice  with  wings, 
Trailing  behind  it,  as  it  soars  and  sings, 

A  shower  of  effervescent  silver  sound  — 

A  fountain-fall  of  music  clear  and  strong  — 
The  bubbling  bounty  of  the  sky-lark's  song ! 
(104) 


TIME'S   LOSSES. 

IF  some  kind  power,  when  our  youth  is  ended, 
And  life's  first  freshness  lost  in  languid  noon, 

Should  stay  awhile  the  doom  by  Fate  intended, 
And  grant  us  pityingly  one  precious  boon,  — 

Saying,  "  With  thwartings,  bitterness  and  trial, 
Your  toilsome  days  thus  far  have  been  oppressed  ; 

Choose  now  some  blessing,  fearing  no  denial. 
To  light  and  charm  and  beautify  the  rest "  — 

What  should  we  ask  ?  the  prize  of  young  ambition  ? 

Fame,  power,  wealth,  and  gifts  of  priceless  cost  ? 
Ah,  no  —  our  souls  would  utter  the  petition  — 

"  Give  us,  oh,  only  give  us  back  our  lost ! 

"  No  visioned  bliss,  no  pleasure  new  and  splendid, 
No  lofty  joy  by  shadow  all  uncrossed. 

No  fresh  delight  undreamed-of,  heaven-descended,  — 
Only  our  own  —  the  treasures  we  have  lost." 

For  wearied  out  with  strife  and  glare  and  clamor, 
In  time  we  grow  more  wise,  and  clearer-eyed, 
(105) 


106  TIME'S  LOSSES. 

No  more  beguiled  by  dreams,  nor  charmed  by  glamour, 
We  dread  the  new,  and  love  the  known,  the  tried. 

And  ev'n.  those  lives  which  hold  the  saddest  story, 
Whose   griefs   have   been   most   deep,  whose  joys 
most  few, 

Have  had  their  raptures,  sweet  and  transitory, 
Their  rosy  summer-hours  of  bloom  and  dew. 

Ah,  what  a  lovely  group  would  gather  round  us, 
Could  we  but  have  our  vanished  back  again ! 

The   heart   unspoiled,  the  strength  and    hope  which 

crowned  us, 
The  bounteous  life,  the  ignorance  of  pain,  — 

The  plans  for  noble  lives,  that  earth  thereafter 

Might  be  more  pure ;  the  touch  of  love's  warm  lip 

And  saving  hand  ;  the  sound  of  childish  laughter, 
The  peace  of  home,  the  joy  of  comradeship  — 

The  innocence,  the  ready  faith  in  others, 

The  sweet,  spontaneous  earnestness  and  truth, 

Warm  clasps  of  friends,  the  tender  eyes  of  mothers, 
And  all  the  sweet  inheritance  of  youth ! 

We  had  them  all  —  and  now  that  they  have  left  us, 
We  count  them  carefully  and  see  their  worth, 


TIME'S  LOSSES.  107 

Knowing  that  time  and  fortune  have  bereft  us 
Of  all  the  fairest,  dearest  things  on  earth. 

Ah  yes  !  when  on  our  hearts  the  years  are  pressing, 
And  all  our  flower-plats  are  touched  with  frost, 

We  ask  no  more  some  new  untasted  blessing, 
But  only  sigh,  "  Oh,  give  us  back  our  lost !  " 


FIRE-FLIES. 

ERE  yet  with  lingering  footsteps  comes  the  dark, 

In  the  cool  chalice  of  a  twilight  bloom 
Or  under  some  low  grass-tuft's  canopy, 

The  dainty  fire-fly  makes  her  tiring-room, 
And  trims  her  lamp,  and  robes  her  royally, 

With  cunning  which  no  mortal  eye  may  mark, 
For  night's  grand  carnival,  ere  long  to  be, 

With  joy  and  beauty,  music  and  perfume. 

Oh,  could  we  walk  with  noiseless  elfin  feet 

The  rare  seclusion  where  the  shining  queen 
Sits  listening  to  the  lovelorn  cricket's  tune  — 

That  bashful  troubadour  who  sings  unseen  — 
Making  her  veiled  green  bower  bright  as  noon 

With  a  rich  golden  lustre  mild  and  sweet, 
Yet  borrowed  neither  from  the  sun  nor  moon 

Nor  any  fire,  nor  ray  of  star  serene. 

No  legend-lover  of  the  lands  afar, 

No  story-teller  near  an  Eastern  throne, 

Who,  uttering  all  his  wildest  fancies,  weaves 
Romaunts  and  magic  tales  till  night  is  flown, 
(108) 


FIRE-FLIES.  109 

So  marvellous  a  heroine  conceives 

As  this,  who  asks  no  aid  of  lamp  or  star, 

But  lights  her  odorous  chamber  in  the  leaves 
With  a  clear  conscious  radiance  all  her  own ! 

When  headlong  beetles  booin  across  the  night 

And  high  the  flowering  mimosa  tree 
Holds  its  thin  flames  against  the  growing  dark, 

And  heavy  dew-drops  gather  silently  — 
Up  from  the  grass  her  mellow  opal-spark, 

—  A  living  gem,  instinct  with  joy  and  light, 
Floats  tremulous,  like  a  fairy's  tiny  bark 

Bearing  unearthly  radiance  out  at  sea. 

And  then  a  thousand  glitter  into  view, 

Crowding  in  fleets,  or  gathering  one  by  one  — 
They  soar  and  sink  and  circle  up  and  down, 

And  follow  where  the  airy  currents  run ; 
But  when  the  eager  day  puts  on  her  crown, 

Lo,  with  the  darkness  they  have  faded  too  — 
Stranded  like   storm-wrecked  ships  all  bruised  and 
Y       brown  — 

Their  light  extinguished  and  their  voyage  done. 


A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

IT  was  a  winter  night  of  stars  and  frost ;  — 
Two  friends,  with  sportive  question  and  reply, 

Leaving  a  cheerful  fireside  circle,  crossed 
The  threshold,  pausing  for  a  gay  good-by. 

She  speaking  lightly,  but  with  earnest  eyes 
Telling  of  grief,  or  feeling  long  repressed  — 

He  courtly  but  severe  and  worldly-wise  — 
A  hostess,  speeding  her  departing  guest. 

She  laid  her  hand  in  his,  with  frank  farewell, 
And  eyes  met  eyes  with  smile  serene  and  kind, 

When  suddenly  a  clearer  vision  fell 

Across  them  —  and  they  knew  they  had  been  blind. 

Blind  in  not  seeing  how  their  souls  had  grown 
Dear  each  to  each,  all  other  souls  above  — 

That  until  now,  they  had  not  dreamed  or  known 
The  bliss,  the  pain,  the  perfectness  of  love. 
(110) 


A  WINTER  NIGHT.  Ill 

The  whole  earth  might  have  passed  in  fire  or  flood, 
World  crashed  with  world,  or  systems  whirled 
apart, 

And  they  had  not  perceived  it,  as  they  stood 
In  that  delicious  moment,  heart  to  heart. 

Only  a  moment  of  supreme  surprise, 

Delirious  joy  crushed  down  by  heaviest  pain, 

And  then  each  conscious  soul,  too  sadly  wise, 
Took  up  the  burden  of  its  bonds  again. 

How  could  he  hope  to  hide  his  new-born  woe 

"Where  pleasures  whirl  and  mad  ambitions  press  ? 

Or  in  the  petty  cares  which  women  know, 
How  could  she  look  for  peace  or  happiness  ? 

Driven  as  by  a  flaming  sword,  he  turned, 
And  in  the  instant,  as  he  left  the  place, 

Into  his  wildered  brain  her  image  burned, 
And  all  the  wordless  anguish  of  her  face. 

Each  trifling  detail  sank  into  his  heart  — 

Even  the  last  year's  vine,  which  stark  and  bare, 

From  its  supporting  trellis  torn  apart, 

Swung  in  the  winter  wind,  and  touched  her  hair. 

And  she,  although  she  kept  her  quiet  guise, 
Nor  let  the  fire  upon  her  hearth  grow  dim, 


112  A  WINTER  NIGHT. 

Remembered  always  his  despairing  eyes, 

And  knew  that  all  her  soul  was  gone  with  him. 

Each  held  the  secret  like  a  hidden  crime, 

To  be  concealed  and  kept  from  sight  of  men  — 

Yet  knowing  that  the  world,  nor  life,  nor  time 
Could  ever  henceforth  be  the  same  again. 

Years  passed  before  the  last  and  darkest  night 
Closed  round  his  soul ;  yet  then  he  saw  her  there 

In  the  cold  splendor  of  the  starry  light, 

With  the  dead  tendrils  garlanding  her  hair. 


ADVICE. 

HE  has  told  you  the  same  old  story- 
Told  ever  anew  by  wooers  — 

The  story  of  pure  devotion 

Unchanging  while  life  endures  — 

This  passionate,  palpitating, 
Persistent  lover  of  yours  ? 

He  has  called  you  by  every  title 
Which  lovers  love  to  repeat  — 

A  queen,  a  goddess,  an  angel, 
With  changes  tender  and  sweet, 

And  laid  the  troublesome  treasure 
Men  call  a  heart  at  your  feet  ? 

You  ask  me  what  you  shall  answer  ? 

Ah,  child,  could  my  counsel  throw 
The  weight  of  a  thought  against  him  ? 

Love  never  hesitates  so  ! 
Answer  him  No,  fair  doubter, 

Forever  and  ever  No  ! 
(113) 


114  ADVICE. 

There  lives  a  marvellous  insect 
In  the  southern  meadows  far, 

Where  the  wild  white  ipomeas 
And  the  passion-flowers  are, 

That  even  in  broad  bright  daylight 
Gleams  like  a  living  star. 

It  circles,  a  flying  jewel, 

Beautiful  to  behold,  — 
It  settles  to  rest  a  moment  — 

A  globule  of  molten  gold  ; 
But  once  in  the  hand  imprisoned, 

Its  color  grows  dim  and  cold ; 

You  grasp  at  a  flashing  jewel 
Worthy  a  monarch's  crown, 

Glistening,  darting,  glancing 
And  glittering  up  and  down, 

And  capture  —  a  sharded  beetle, 
Sluggish  and  dull  and  brown ! 

And  thus,  to  a  youth's  mad  fancy 
Is  the  object  of  love's  wild  quest  — 

Reckoned  above  all  blessings 
Dearest  and  first  and  best 

So  long  as  remote  and  elusive  — 
But  worthless  when  once  possessed. 


ADVICE.  115 

\    For  weariness  comes  of  having, 
When  happiness  means  pursuit, 

j   And  love  grows  dwarfish  and  stinted 

And  bears  but  a  bitter  fruit 
When  the  serpent  of  self  forever 
Is  coiling  about  its  root. 

So  lips  which  have  met  in  kisses 
Grow  chary  of  tender  speech  — 

So  hearts  which  are  bound  together 
Grow  burdensome  each  to  each, 

Since  the  only  things  men  value 
Are  those  which  they  cannot  reach. 

Who  cares  for  the  roadside  roses 
Which  grow  within  grasp  of  all, 

While  their  inaccessible  sisters, 
Less  lovely  and  sweet  and  tall, 

But  dearer  because  of  their  distance,  — 
Lean  over  the  garden  wall  ? 

So  the  gainer  counts  as  nothing 

The  blessing  that  should  have  been  — 

The  conqueror  turns  indifferent 
From  the  conquest  he  gloried  in, 

Longing,  like  Alexander, 
For  lovelier  worlds  to  win. 


116  ADVICE. 

j      Then  answer  him  No,  young  maiden,  — 

Be  pitiless  and  serene ; 
There  are  heart-sick  wives  in  plenty, 

But  angels  are  seldom  seen ; 
Keep  to  your  cloud,  bright  goddess  ! 
Stay  on  your  throne,  fair  queen ! 


YEARS   AFTER. 

I  KNOW  the  years  have  rolled  across  thy  grave 
Till  it  has  grown  a  plot  of  level  grass,  — 

All  summer  does  its  green  luxuriance  wave 
In  silken  shimmer  on  thy  breast,  alas  ! 

And  all  the  winter  it  is  lost  to  sight 

Beneath  a  winding-sheet  of  chilly  white. 

I  know  the  precious  name  I  loved  so  much 
Is  heard  no  more  the  haunts  of  men  among  ; 

The  tree  thou  planteclst  has  outgrown  thy  touch, 
And  sings  to  alien  ears  its  murmuring  song ; 

The  lattice-rose  forgets  thy  tendance  sweet, 

The  air  thy  laughter,  and  the  sod  thy  feet. 

Through  the  dear  wood  where  grew  thy  violets, 
Lies  the  worn  track  of  travel,  toil,  and  trade ; 
And  steam's  imprisoned  demon  fumes  and  frets 
With  shrieks   that   scare  the  wild   bird  from   the 

shade ; 

Mills  vex  the  lazy  stream,  and  on  its  shore 
The  timid  harebell  swings  its  chimes  no  more. 
(117) 


118  YEARS  AFTER. 

But  yet  — even  yet  —  if  I,  grown  changed  and  old, 
Should  lift  my  eyes  at  opening  of  the  door, 

And  see  again  thy  fair  head's  waving  gold, 

And  meet  thy  dear  eyes'  tender  smile  once  more, 

These  years  of  parting  like  a  night  would  seem, 

And  I  should  say,  "  I  knew  it  was  a  dream !  " 


AT  FOURSCORE. 

FEW  men  achieve  the  life  by  Heaven  intended  — 
Few  die  the  late  calm  death  by  nature  meant ; 
Yet  with  this  wintry  day  is  calmly  ended 
A  life  which,  holding  nothing  strange  or  splendid, 
Reached  the  ideal  in  fulness  and  extent. 

His  was  a  genial  soul,  that  loved  to  render 

Kindness  for  coldness  still,  and  good  for  guile ; 
As  buds  unclose  to  meet  the  sunshine's  splendor, 
His  warm  heart  opened,  flower-like  and  tender, 

To  love's  fond  touch,  or  friendship's  word  and  smile. 

No  loud  majorities  his  praises  sounded," 

No  proud  successes  made  him  eminent, 
But  children  loved  him ;  all  his  life  abounded 
In  kindly  deeds  ;  his  fourscore  years  were  rounded 
With  well-done  duties  and  serene  content. 

No  death  more  blest  could  be  to  mortal  given ; 
Love  watched  the  loosing  of  the  silver  cord  — 
(119) 


120  AT  FOURSCORE. 

And  when  the  golden  bowl  was  gently  riven, 
Without  a  pang,  exchanging  earth  for  heaven, 
The  faithful  servant  went  to  his  reward. 

And  though  by  no  proud  marble's  sculptured  masses 

The  story  of  his  blameless  life  is  told, 
The  frozen  sods  will  wake,  when  winter  passes, 
And  dandelions  bright,  and  tender  grasses 
Will  broider  all  his  bed  with  green  and  gold. 


THE   VOICES   OF  SPRING. 

SESTINA. 

WHY  is  it  that  the  voices  of  the  spring, 

The  bluebird's  note,  the  redbreast's  mellow  call, 

The  sweet,  sweet  carols  which  the  sparrows  sing, 
The  peeping  of  the  frogs  at  evening's  fall, 

These  vague  regrets  and  homesick  longings  bring 
To  hearts  which  listen  for  and  love  them  all  ? 

All  hearts  rejoice  when  winter  goes  —  and  all 
Are  glad  to  welcome  back  the  tardy  spring  ; 

To  hear  the  woods  responding  to  the  call 

Which,   rough   and   blustering,  the  March   winds 
sing, — 

To  mark  the  shower's  blossom-waking  fall, 

And  the  slight  changes  which  the  slow  days  bring. 

And  yet,  the  first  soft  days  are  sure  to  bring 
A  tender  sadness  with  their  joy,  to  all  — 

For  with  the  new  growth,  buried  memories  spring 
As  once  of  old  at  dread  enchantment's  call, 

The  dead  arose  and  spake  ;  how  can  we  sing 

Or  smile,  when  tears  well  up,  and  fain  would  fall  ? 
(121) 


122  THE  VOICES  OF  SPRING. 

Even  the  lark's  voice  has  a  mournful  fall  — 
His  lovely  golden  breast,  that  seems  to  bring 

The  sunshine  with  it,  and  the  warmth,  and  all 
That  makes  and  glorifies  the  gracious  spring, 

Is  burdened  with  that  long  despairing  call 

For  one  he  seeks  in  vain,  —  how  can  he  sing  ? 

We  think  of  strains  which  hope  was  wont  to  sing 
In  youth's  sweet  Eden-land,  before  the  fall 

Did  to  our  souls  time's  bitter  wisdom  bring 
And  hush  the  angel-voices  one  and  all ; 

Yet  we  remember  them,  and  every  spring 
Catch  far  and  faint  the  echo  of  their  call. 

Never  does  summer-time  or  autumn  call 

The  same  soft  sadness  back  ;  the  birds  may  sing, 

Flowers  fade,  and  ripe  October's  foliage  fall, 
Yet  not  the  same  strange  melancholy  bring ; 

It  is  the  saddest  season  of  them  all, 

The  weeping,  haunted,  unf  orgetf  ul  spring ! 

Ah,  lovely  spring !  though  mating  bluebirds  call, 
And  redbreasts  sing,  and  sparrows'   song-showers 

fall, 
Thy  soft  hours  bring  the  same  sweet  pain  to  all ! 


ONE   OF   THREE. 

"  I  AM  not  quite  alone,"  she  said  — 
"  I  have  fair  daughters  three  — 

And  one  is  dead,  and  one  is  wed, 
And  one  remains  with  me. 

"  Awhile  I  watch,  with  tenderest  care 
Her  growth  from  child  to  maid. 

And  plait  her  fair  and  shining  hair  — 
A  long  and  golden  braid  — 

"  (Ah,  sweet  the  bloom  upon  the  grape 

Before  it  leaves  the  vine  !) 
And  deck  and  drape  her  dainty  shape 

With  garments  soft  and  fine  — 

"  And  keep  her  sacred  and  apart, 

Until  some  stranger's  plea 
With  flattering  art  shall  win  her  heart 

Away  from  home  and  me. 

(123) 


124  ONE  OF  THREE. 

"  Some  lover,  in  a  summer's  space, 

Will  woo  and  covet  so 
Her  lissome  grace  and  white-rose  face, 

That  she  will  smile  and  go,  — 

"  Leaving  her  childhood's  home  and  me 

Forgotten  and  bereft; 
Then  there  will  be,  of  all  my  three, 

Only  the  dead  one  left. 

"  Why  count  the  dead  as  lost  ?  ah,  me, 

I  keep  my  dead  alone, 
For  only  she,  of  all  the  three, 

Will  always  be  my  own. 

"  She  will  not  slight,  at  morn  or  eve, 
The  old  love  for  the  new ; 

The  living  leave  our  hearts  to  grieve  — 
The  dead  are  always  true !  " 


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Allen,  LSrsJ 

Ilizabeth  A. 

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